


The Swan Beneath the Stars

by YorisJ_19



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, Enemy Lovers, Epic, F/M, Force Visions, Friendship, Humor, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, Manipulation, Plot, Politics, Prophetic Dreams, Redemption, Romance, Smut, Suitless Vader, Time Travel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-13 04:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17480951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YorisJ_19/pseuds/YorisJ_19
Summary: A single drop of his tear, imbued with starlight and gleaming like a flawless crystal, rolled down his scarred cheek and fell into the endless plane of water beneath his feet. His silent sorrow rippled across the realms of oblivion, and even the angels upon the Moons of Lego wept with him.“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Qui-Gon said gently, “Tell me, my dear boy, what do you see?”“Padmé...” That was all his trembling lips could utter before he collapsed onto his knees and clutched his face in unspeakable agony, tears flowing through his fingers as his raw emotions seeped through the confines of his heart. “I am so sorry...”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars and any of its characters. (Unless I wake up tomorrow and become George Lucas) 
> 
> When Darth Sidious perished on the Second Death Star, his malice was so intense that his disembodied spirit survived from pure hatred. It wondered the void until it came upon the Maw, a black hole that ripped the fabric of time and space. Through it, Darth Sidious’s spirit traveled back in time with no other goal than to inform his younger self of future events so he could achieve absolute galactic domination.
> 
> And he seems to have succeeded: the galaxy was engulfed in darkness, and he was able to seduce the chosen one, Anakin Skywalker, to the dark side as the dreaded Darth Vader. Heeding the advice of his future self, he manipulated many events to accomplish his sinister agenda, but the force had a will of its own. Could destiny truly be altered? Could love, sacrifice, and devotion overcome evil, deception, and darkness? 
> 
> Author's note: Dear reader, here are a few things to keep in mind before you begin that would make the reading more enjoyable:  
> \- This is an alternative universe with canon divergence. It is a different scenario with the same characters, technology, setting, etc. I took liberty in constructing my plot, but I made sure the characters are as close to canon as possible. (Obviously, the story impacts the characters and their development, but I ensured that if Character X did Y in a particular situation in canon, he/she would do the same thing, all other factors being equal, in my story)  
> \- There will be explicit content in the future. I will include warnings in the notes of those respective chapters, and I will ensure that scenes central to the plot/character development will not be explicit. All explicit content will be skippable without missing anything essential to the plot. Thus if you are unwilling to see certain contents, the story will still be readable.  
> \- Anakin/Vader is suitless. His appearance and attire will be like that at the end of Episode III: face beneath the hood, dark robes, etc.  
> \- Anakin/Vader's former master was Qui-Gon instead of Obi-Wan, the backstory will be explained in future chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story!

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away…

 

**_STAR WARS_ **

 

Peace and security has been achieved under

The benevolent reign Emperor Palpatine. 

The crumbling republic was reorganized and reformed; 

A new age of prosperity has begun.

\---

In the years that followed, new threats

Began to emerge. The trusted right-hand man

Of the emperor, Darth Vader, was tasked with

Hunting down anyone who dare opposes the 

Empire and its agenda.

\---

While the military and bureaucracy acted with

Efficiency and ruthlessness, Emperor Palpatine 

Became elusive and retreated into the shadow. 

At the eve of the Empire fifth year, 

Darth Vader traveled, at the emperor’s behest,

To the remote world of Serenno to seek out an

Old acquaintance…

\---

 

The void of space above the peaceful planet of Serenno was suddenly disturbed. A star destroyer of colossal size completed its hyperspace jump, warping in silently. An imperial shuttle unfolded its wings and made its descent onto the planet surface, followed closely by four TIE interceptors. 

The planet was covered by lush rainforest and exotic flora, their rich colors amplified by the brilliant twilight that shrouded everything like a transparent veil. The two moons of Serenno shone in a dim, pale hue behind a few thin, drifting clouds, their reflections dancing in the glassy waters of a lake overlooked by an oval-shaped palace. The moonlight gleamed faintly upon the erect citadel that rose above the cliffside, flanked by three twisted spires of gargantuan size. The imperial shuttle landed in an isolated courtyard before the massive structure, surrounded by bushes that bloomed in crimson, magenta, and purple. A dark robed man stepped off the shuttle and stretched slightly, breathing in the rosy aroma of the palace gardens. He stayed there for a moment as if he was lost in thought, then he abruptly turned and began walking down the meandering paved path that led to the main gates. A few stormtroopers trailed him in escort until the man held up his gloved hand in a dismissive gesture and entered the palace compound himself.

The great hall was foreboding and dark with lofty ceilings. A circular window decorated by elaborate stained glass beckoned at the opposite end. The light that filtered through showered the hall in mirages of blue and green, making the scene more eldritch and ominous. The robed man did not seem to care. He navigated the hall expertly with large strides and reached the throne situated below the stained glass window. To his apparent disappointment, it was empty and deserted, covered by a fine layer of dust. He surveyed the derelict palace and observed that it has lost its former glory and fell on hard times from both disuse and disrepair. But he knew that was merely a clever disguise, for he could sense an unmistakable presence through the force, and that presence was encroaching closer by every passing second.

The silence of the hall was broken by the sound of heels clicking on the marble floor. The robed man turned and saw a figure move in the darkness. The silhouette traced the frame of a tall and lean man. It was evident from his measured steps and stately mien that this was a man of noble birth and aristocratic upbringing. As he emerged from the shadows, a booming voice filled the empty halls, solemn and dignified:

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” The man asked. It was a rhetorical question, however, as he quickly continued before his unexpected visitor had a chance to respond, “I have sensed your approach from afar, Lord Vader, the force is strong with you. Only if you had notified me a few days in advance, I would have prepared a more stately welcome.”

“Count Dooku.” Vader replied coolly, still standing beside the throne, “It has been some time.”

“Indeed, my old friend.” Dooku slowed in his approach before he reached the steps that led up to his throne. The Count appeared healthy and energetic. He swift and decisive movements would suggest him as a man at the prime of his life, but his ashen and gaunt face, illuminated by the fading light, betrayed his true age. Time carved deep lines into his forehead and turned his hair and beard into shining strands of silver. Piercing the darkness, his sunken eyes beamed like two orbs of gold, sharp, sly, and calculating. Unlike the simple ebony robes and tunic favored by Vader, Dooku’s robes were refined and aristocratic. The fine linen bore a shade of crimson, and in some places, it was laced with gold. His velvet cape draped over his shoulders and flowed down his back, held in place by a simple yet elegant silver chain. He took one step up and gazed at Vader, scrutinizing him closely, “And I am sure an important man like you would not spare time for me unless there is something specific...”

“The emperor desires your presence on Coruscant,” Vader stated.

Dooku opened his mouth but made no response. For a second the old man seemed shaken, but he regained his composure quickly and nodded at the younger man, “I am honored! The invitation is most kind…”

“It was not an invitation.” Vader interrupted, “It was an order.”

A faint smile emerged upon the Count’s face. Without speaking, the Count began ascending the steps. Both of them felt the mighty clashes in the force as the tension between the two sith lords intensified. Dooku stopped three steps short of Vader and spoke in a musing tone, refusing to make eye contact, “I remember clearly the emperor’s promise. The galaxy is now at peace, and the republic has been rebuilt into something stronger and more secure. My purpose is complete, and here I retire. I fail to see how this summon is relevant.”

“I fail to see how your purpose is complete, Count,” Vader replied. He still stood motionlessly on the edge of the elevated platform before the throne. “The emperor has his biddings, and you will obey.”

“I am recalled precisely because my purpose is complete.” Dooku said, speaking more to himself than to Vader, “I will not go.”

He could feel the torrents within the force erupt between them, spinning and howling like a raging tempest. He could sense the impending duel, and the intentions of Count Dooku laid bare in his mind. A whirlwind of raw power crackled at his fingertips as the vortex of the hurricane was approaching quickly. Darth Vader readied himself and felt the force flow through his body. Reaching out, he felt his lightsaber, and his confidence swelled as he gazed at the older man with eyes aflame. He took a small step forward and declared: “You have no choice.”

Dooku smiled: “Do I?”

In that very instant, an explosive blast slashed across the throne room as bolts of force lightning collided. Both sith lords simultaneously conjured them from their fingers, and now they were locked in a duel of life and death while the power of a thunderstorm raged between them. The blue and purple rays sizzled and cracked the floor upon which they stood as smoke emerged from the burnt debris. Vader cursed internally that he forgot to remove his glove and thus cannot channel the full might of the lightning’s power. He felt his patience expire as the Count pushed forward with his attacks. Quickly freeing up a hand, Vader sent a mighty force blast that dispelled the electrical field and sent Dooku flying backward. The Count landed effortlessly on his feet, somewhat disoriented but poised nonetheless. 

“I have been looking forward to this, Lord Vader.” The Count smiled and nodded at his younger opponent, “Qui-gon spoke so highly of you. I am impressed. You exceed all expectations.”

“My knowledge of the force far exceeds yours, Count,” Vader said as he removed his cloak, revealing his face. It would come to anyone’s disbelief that the Emperor’s most trusted lieutenant and a ruthless sith lord would have a boyish face with long, curly hair. It had none of the hardened and battered appearances of Count Dooku’s visage nor the manipulative cunning of the sith emperor. It looked like the face of a naive lover or a fervent idealist, full of the vehemence of youth with energy radiating and burning like the core of a star. But that face was not innocent nor naive. A long, gruesome scar stretched across his brows and cheek, while his eyes beamed flames of bright gold as if a restless furnace burnt within his soul. His features would have been very agreeable, with a pointed nose and chiseled jaws, but there seemed to be a shadow veiling his appealing features that were incapable of being lifted. If his face would relax and brighten, it would be quite alluring and surely many girls would swoon seeing how dashingly handsome he was, but the deep shade beneath his eyes and the sulky twisting of his lips would make any onlooker uncomfortable. He appeared like an ill and despondent man with a malignant disposition. It was the face of a vengeful and vindictive individual, one capable of unspeakable horrors and betrayals. That fact was made more unsettling by his youth and vigor as if in less than two dozen years his hands were already filled with bloodstained trophies of genocidal deeds. His brows furrowed, casting a shade upon his eyes that made them appear a hue deeper, and then said darkly: “My power has doubled since the end of the war, Dooku, you are no match for me now.”

“Twice the pride, double the fall.” Dooku jested, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile. He made an intricate motion with his hand, and a red light flashed across the room as his crimson lightsaber ignited with a loud buzz. He spun the curved hilt a few times, the energy from the blade humming against the air, and brought the weapon before his chest. On the opposite side of the room, Vader silently ignited his own saber. The two sith lords beheld each other briefly, bowed slightly, acknowledging their opponent in respect. Then without a word both made a mighty leap into the air, sabers at the ready. 

Vader attacked ruthlessly, bearing down upon the elderly count with his brutal blows. Dooku evaded his attacks and deflected them with a certain difficulty, not able to counterattack but not conceding any weakness for Vader to breakthrough. They spun and pirouetted, evenly matching each other: what the Count lacked in power, he made up with his decades of experience, first as a Jedi, now as a dark lord. However, he was soon overwhelmed by Vader’s endless attacks as his strength began to falter. In an instant of opportunism, the Count attempted to lunge and pierce through Vader’s attacks, but the young sith caught one of his wrists with his mechanical hand. He turned and pulled the Count closer with an iron grip and bore down upon him with all his might. Both men struggled and groaned, their muscle straining and stamina depleted from the intense duel. Vader glared across the hissing sabers into the eyes of the Count, pressing down them down until they were mere inches away from his opponent’s skin. 

“You...have...great power…” Dooku said through clenched teeth, his hand trembling from the pressure as he returned Vader’s glare, “But you...don’t know how to use it!”

“Don’t make me kill you, Count,” Vader growled. He could feel the anger burning and scratching his inside like a beast yearning to be released. He could feel the dark side gain power within him, and with that, he pressed down further toward his struggling opponent.

“Kill me?” Dooku scowled and pushed back himself, somehow rallying enough power to stall Vader’s advance. His eyes were filled with fear as the plasma blades crept closer and closer to himself, “You...can not kill me...Skywalker!”

It felt as if something snapped within Vader and his ire expanded and exploded like a supernova. Hues of red flashed in his eyes as they turned from brilliant gold to a darker bronze. The internal firestorm manifested itself as he let out a guttural howl from the depth of his chest and pushed Dooku’s saber down toward his neck, quickly overcoming his feeble defense. It came so close that the sparks and heat from the saber began burning the Count’s skin, whose face was instantly filled with agony. In a desperate attempt to free himself from peril, the Count used his trapped hand and directed all the force energy left in him into a downward blast, sending himself and Vader flying into the air, separating them in the process.

“Darth Sidious...has taught you...well…” Dooku said under his breath as he knelt on the floor, clutching the burnt skin upon his neck, “You have become powerful, Lord Vader.”

The younger sith regained his balance and stood up. He turned off his lightsaber and summoned Dooku’s weapon using telekinesis, catching it nimbly in the air. He approached the fallen Count without a single utterance and ignited both blades. He hovered them over Dooku and situated his head right between the crossed blades

“I suggest you reconsider your...choice,” Vader said grimly, his anger barely suppressed.

“Kill me here.” Dooku lowered his head and said with an inkling of irony in his tone, “For the emperor will have you do the same on Coruscant, sooner or later.” 

For a second, the younger man was taken aback by that statement. His ire faded as he felt bewilderment in his mind. He sensed the fear and anguish that filled the Count, but also the exhaustion and...despair? He suddenly remembered his master’s lesson: confusion is a weakness, and a sith lord cannot be weak. Thus he composed himself and regarded the Count with stone cold resolve. He was here for a mission, and the objective was right before him. He pushed the conflicting thoughts out of his conscious mind and continued. 

“No,” Vader replied, extinguishing both blades and clipped them to his belt. “Despite my great urge to destroy you, the emperor asked for me to retrieve you, Count, he didn’t ask for your corpse.” He slowly walked past a disheveled and defeated Dooku, who still knelt on the floor, and swang the palace gates open with the flick of his wrist. The stormtroopers that waited outside saluted their commander and made a path for him while the imperial officer looked wearily into the interior of the hall. 

Before he exited, Vader stopped and turned his head back, “I will be waiting for you in the ship, Count.”

 

***On the bridge of the star destroyer***

 

The double doors slid open smoothly before Vader, revealing the crowded command bridge to him. As if he had flipped off a switch, the idle talking of the crew was suddenly silenced as he entered. He strode through the central path toward the window, ignoring the captain that came to greet him. He has always enjoyed the panorama view offered on the bridge. It filled him with power as he gazed across the void of space, the stars and solar systems of the whole galaxy shone like icons on a holoscreen, each one waiting to be conquered and subjugated into the expanse of his dominion. Every planet he chose to gaze upon will bow to him as he wishes, and soon enough, they could be annihilated to his heart’s content…

Vader grinned: he was getting ahead of himself; regardless, super weapon or not, it is nothing compared to what the force has taught him and the extent of its power. He had always held a contemptuous attitude toward those enamored with technology and putting their faith in circuits, metal, and machines. He scoffed at their blindness and found their faith, or the lack of thereof, disturbing. He did not care for the intricate circuitry behind a transmitter for he was a living conduit of the full power of the dark side of the force; He did not care for titanium armor for he could deflect any blast and blow with his lightsaber or his bare hands; He scorned the battle droids and walkers that people believed to be invincible, for he was the most efficient and feared battle machine of the whole galaxy. Despite his interest in tinkering and fixing mechanical objects, and he will admit that it was an entertaining pastime, to him, that matter belonged in one’s private sphere of interests, not in the forefront of the Empire’s military.

The officer interrupted his thoughts again with another insignificant report which Vader ignored. But he stopped the officer before he could leave, who looked visibly frightened and nervous at that request: “Yes, my lord?”

“Summon Count Dooku to the bridge.”

“Right away, Sir.” The officer left hastily, relieved to be away from the presence of the dark lord. Vader turned slightly to observe him go, grinning sinisterly at the panicked thoughts radiating from the officer as he fled away. He excelled at interrogation with his gift in the force, but sometimes people do so poorly in hiding their emotions that he had no need to pry open their head and peel away the layers like an onion, the thoughts simply burst from their head like a geyser. He called again at the same officer and at another lieutenant who passed by.

The officer froze midway in his course and slowly turned around. Vader could already feel his dread as he slowly approached the sith lord waiting for him. The lieutenant joined him soon after, standing slightly behind the officer and no less frightened. 

“You, lieutenant, go and summon Count Dooku to the bridge,” Vader commanded. The lieutenant nodded and left promptly while the officer looked with his mouth agape. Vader laughed on the inside at hearing the officer’s thoughts: what happened? Wasn’t I supposed to get Count Dooku? Oh no, this is not good! What have I done wrong? He looked at the trembling officer before him and spoke slowly:

“You, officer, I have a question.” He said pensively while looking at the stars through the grand window of the bridge, “And I hope you have an answer.”

“Yes, my..my lord?” The officer replied shakily, uncertain what his commander was referring to and feeling an encroaching sense of doom. Vader only listened to reports and rarely commented on anything other than important military matters. If one was summoned by the sith lord personally, it could mean two things: delivering the death sentence of another or delivering it for oneself. 

“I have requested the comm link room to be ready at my return for contacting…” Vader thought for a second and continued, “Tarkin.” He turned and looked at the officer, whose face was a combination of profound shock and confusion, “Have you set up a transmission with the Grand Moff as I have asked?”

“My..my lord! I do not remember...uh, I do not recall, such a request?” The officer shrunk from the dark lord and rubbed his hand before his chest. He raised one hand to fix his collar and rubbed compulsively at his neck. Vader chuckled darkly at that gesture: everyone knows well enough his preferred form of punishment. At that thought, he abruptly raised his arm and the officer instantly flinched with visible horror upon his face.

“Are you questioning my judgment?” The dark lord turned his whole body and felt the effect of his imposing presence. The officer squeaked and recoiled, the fear flowing from him like a profuse stream. Vader devoured that emotion voraciously, feeling great satisfaction at torturing the officer. Before he could continue further, the double doors opened again, and Count Dooku entered with his hands cuffed, escorted by a dozen stormtroopers. 

“Do not fail me again, officer. I’m already considering your replacement.” Vader announced to the petrified man, who looked as if he soiled his breeches, and dismissed him. He turned to greet his fellow dark lord:

“Welcome aboard, Count.” He barely attempted to conceal his smugness as he spoke. With a wave of his hand, the stormtroopers were dismissed, and the metal handcuffs fell from Dooku’s wrists with a loud clang. “Come join me.”

The older man complied silently and stood beside Vader. There was a grave silence between them for some time as they gazed out at the stars, and neither spoke nor moved. Vader could feel the intense mental probing the Count was conducting, but he was a master of concealment and he prided himself in his abilities to keep his thoughts and emotions secured in the depth of his mind. Even the powerful Sith lord who ever lived, his master Darth Sidious, couldn’t succeed in extracting anything specific from Vader other than his general mood. His own endeavors, however, were far from successful, and Dooku’s mind felt like an iron box, impregnable and firm like a fortress. Dooku has always been quite an enigma to him, and he was glad that an opportunity presented itself for him to gather valuable information for his own benefit. Thus he began:

“You chose a very interesting destination for retirement. I suppose you and I are similar after all, Dooku. I despise politicians and petty intrigue, and if I were to choose, I would stay as far away from Coruscant as possible.” Vader commented, contemplating the surface of Serenno. It was beautiful at a distance to see the emerald planet, so lush and pristine, unlike the dust bowl of a world that Vader hailed from. Around the equator, a cluster of thick, looming clouds, a tropical storm, could be discerned with the naked eye. With great annoyance, he recalled the sandstorms on Tatooine. Sand! Damned sand... 

“Serenno is my home.” Dooku calmly replied, “The house of Dooku is the wealthiest house on the planet, to which I belong. It is natural to return here after a period of turmoil and disappointment…” He trailed off, reluctant to continue. 

“Interesting.” Vader nodded. He glanced at Dooku with his peripheral vision and was slightly surprised by the older man’s expression. It was mingled with a tinge of pride seeing the beauty of his home and reminiscing about the glory of his house. But he also saw an overwhelming sorrow engraved in every feature. It was not a dark sorrow tainted by resentment that Vader feels when he thinks of his past. Instead, it was pure, simple sadness without hatred or envy. Beneath it all, there was something else, something puzzling that intrigued Vader, something the Count must be hiding. 

With the wits that Vader possessed, he could readily deduce that the Count was not recalled for no reason. The Emperor had no need for another enforcer, he had Vader; he had no need for another assassin, he had Maul. A competent commander? Look no further than Tarkin; What of an administrator? The grand vizier Mas Amedda was handling the emperor’s daily affairs adequately as it is. Dooku had a purpose for the emperor, a purpose that Dooku himself was unwilling to disclose. What of all the resistance? Dooku would rather die at his blade than be on Coruscant. The depth of this mystery was worth a thorough investigation. Vader organized his thoughts further for a few moments, and then he continued:

“But tell me, Count, why retire when great power awaited you? And why the…” Vader squinted slightly and searched for the appropriate word, which he settled upon: “commotion…” He put special emphasis upon it, ensuring that Dooku knows what exactly he is referring to, “when I came to retrieve you?” He halted and waited for a response, but Dooku offered none; thus Vader added: “I understand your avoidance of politicians and court intrigue, I understand your dislike for my master, the elusive emperor, but is such aversion stronger than your willingness to live? I am intrigued, Dooku, because, from your actions, it seems like the answer is yes.” 

A subtle voice whispered in his head: “I desire a more private setting.”

Vader waved his hand and summoned a few stormtroopers: “Take him to the interrogation chamber, the most secure one.” As Dooku passed by, handcuffed again, Vader could discern a faint smile on the older man’s face.

 

***In a dark cell***

 

“If you would like a private setting, look no further than this,” Vader said as he entered, turning on the faint light that could barely chase the shadow out of the corners of the room. Dooku sat serenely, strapped to the interrogation chair. He was silent, as if meditating, and then he spoke cautiously as Vader sealed the door:

“Many things, I’m afraid, are...awry, my old friend. All is not as it seems, and we have all been deceived, manipulated, by an unforeseen power…”

“Hold on,” Vader interrupted, his facial expression indecipherable. The room fell silent for a moment as he processed the information Dooku offered, and then he continued: “I don’t follow.”

“There has been manipulation at a cosmic scale, carried out by...” He hesitated, a name hanging at the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed it and said instead: “I do not know who, I do not know how, but I could sense it in the force, and so could you, Lord Vader. The force is upset, the consequences are catastrophic…”

“Liar,” Vader growled menacingly, not allowing the Count to finish. His irritation grew: he did not know what he was expecting to extract from Dooku, but it was definitely not some nonsensical soothsaying. He stood at his full height and loomed before the Count, his tone now far harsher: “I do not care for your babbling, Dooku, I do not care for your tricks to confuse me. I can see through your deception, and I know you are hiding something.”

“We all have secrets, Lord Vader, pasts that we cannot disclose, nor forget.” Dooku said with an inexplicable smile growing on his face, “But I hold a secret so terrible that if it was spoken, it will shake the very foundation of this empire and the galaxy…”

“Don’t make me torture you, Count.” Vader removed his gloves and threw them on the table beside him. He cracked his fingers and with a simple snap, a spark of electricity jumped between his fingertips. “That’s a warning, you are testing my patience.”

“You asked for what I was hiding, and I am willing to tell you. But are you willing to listen, Lord Vader? Are you willing to believe?”

Vader crossed his arms before his chest again and said nothing, but his agitation was quite apparent. Seeing that his interrogator was somewhat subdued, Dooku took it as a good sign and continued: “The force, like all things, seeks balance. That is what makes the Jedi weak, for they only learn the light side of the force but fear the dark side. Because of that, they become sickly and blind to the true potential of its power.”

“You are telling me things I already know, Count. Tell me something I don’t know, otherwise I will hurt you.” 

“But when the force is unbalanced, it does all it could to restore the lost balance. The force has its ways, my friend, it is as a living being. Just as we ought to achieve homeostasis, the force ought to achieve harmony: light and dark, love and hate, joy and pain. For it is always changing and yearning, breathing and growing, speaking…” Dooku paused intently at that word, searching for a reaction from Vader but receiving none. He resumed with a tinge of disappointment: “I am sure you have heard that from someone else before, haven’t you, my friend?”

Vader made no reply. He stood like a gargoyle before Dooku, his figure made more imposing by his black robes with a hue deeper than midnight. He just stood and listened, his face obscured by the shadow, his breathing deep and level, and his voice flat and emotionless. But deep inside the fury was brewing in the young sith, for he knew perfectly well who Dooku was referring to: Vader’s former master, Qui-Gon Jinn. The utterance of that name has always caused Vader an unspeakable pain so profound that it felt as if a cold, metal spike was driven into a grotesque wound that never fully healed. That was the kind of pain that spread through his veins like a deadly venom, numbing his senses until there was nothing but anger and hate remained. He could feel his heart blacken at the thought of his former master, at the thought of his murder. His fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. With great effort, he remained still and expressed his deep displeasure with a threatening glare at the Count. Dooku, however, seemed to not have noticed. He continued more fervently, his eyes gleaming with a rousing flame. Now sitting erect in the chair, the binds on his wrists and ankles strained and groaned as he struggled, exclaiming passionately: 

“The force is speaking, Lord Vader, to those that are willing to listen. I have surpassed all in my knowledge of the force, not only the dark side but all of the living force! And the force spoke to me...through the apparition of my old Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn! Agghhhhh!”

A torrent of dark energy shot from Vader’s fingers and struck Dooku square in the chest, knocking him back with a dull thud against the hard metal seat. The older man struggled against his restraints and thrashed in agony. He convulsed in such an intensity that the metal interrogation chair, which was bolted to the floor, began trembling with him. With all his might, Dooku attempted to say something, his mouth open and his lips twitching, but no words emerged other than hoarse, ghastly groans from the depth of his throat as if his very innards were being squeezed and mangled. Suddenly, an unseen force propelled him up, and enduring the blasts of sith lightning with superhuman strength, he spoke, hysterically, crying out with a raucous voice distorted by suffering:

“The chosen one! Argghhh...Ahh! Anakin...Skywalker!” He shouted in a state no less than delirium, “He will...Arghhh! Bring...balance to...the FORCE!”

A pulse of raw energy shattered every plane of glass and crushed every metal apparatus in the room. The flickering light bulb exploded with a loud pop as the unconscious Count and Vader were showered with its broken fragments. An invisible but potent force crashed against the dented walls of the room, reverberating like a ferocious riptide, foaming with dark energy that swelled and contracted like a live pulse. It hummed in Vader’s ears as the room fell silent, and Vader felt a presence surround him, an ethereal entity that created a strong disturbance in the force. For the first time in many years, his heart of stone, hardened by sith training and darkened by boundless hatred, began throbbing uncontrollably in his chest. He could feel its effect in all of his body, the rush of adrenaline that flooded through him as if he just exited a deadly duel. He stood there breathing unevenly, unable to admit to himself that he was trembling in a feeling akin to fear but one hundred times worse. The lingering presence weakened, and finally, the maelstrom of force energy that clashed around him settled into an uneasy peace, then darkness was all that remained. The same darkness that he took refuge and comfort in for so long now suddenly felt suffocating and something urged him to leave the awful room. He stumbled clumsily and collided with the locked door. Pain and anger emerged again and he sent a mighty shock wave, blasting the heavy door from its hinges and twisting the steel frame in the process. The door, now in two pieces, slammed into the floor, its impact quaking the whole corridor. Stormtroopers and officers that heard the commotion flooded to the source in mass as Vader, staggered and uncoordinated, fled and sought the refuge of his own meditation chamber.

 

***In his meditation pod***

  
  


Deep breathes, Vader thought, deep breathes.

He could feel a vein jumping somewhere around his temple. The humming didn’t stop completely, but it has significantly improved. A dull ache still pulsed from the back of his head, and he felt disorientated even after he sat down. Perhaps in his anger, he has overused the force energy he had. The duel with Dooku earlier was intense, then the interrogation where he used force lightning and the unwitting force blast during the peak of his rage has drained him severely. He tried to focus and clear the tangled morass from his hectic mind, but nothing seemed to be working.

Deep breathes, Vader commanded himself, deep breathes.

At some point, he lost the sense of time. It was an odd, trance-like state that he has never felt before during meditation. It was as if he was peering into a great white cloud that smothered the world. He could feel the cool moisture in his face, and the feeling was pleasant. He wasn’t sure whether the cloud was driven into him by a light breeze, or whether he was drifting through the cloud, but he felt a sense of motion as the air brushed against his face and ruffled through his wavy locks. He relaxed and eased into the feeling that rejuvenated his tense and strained body, but his mind was still restless. He did not understand what was happening, and he hated not being in control. But something reassured him subconsciously that he was safe, and the journey through this...illusion of sorts would bring him the tranquility that he so desperately needed. For minutes, hours, perhaps days, he was just gliding smoothly like a swallow skimming the calm surface of a lake, riding the wind like the sovereign of the sky with his nimble wings.

When that thought occurred in his mind, the white mist that surrounded him suddenly cleared up, dispersed by an unknown force that pierced the fog like rays of light. Now he was really flying like a swallow, gliding over an endless stretch of water that was polished like a fine mirror. He gazed down into it, and he was shocked to see that his reflection was gazing back at him. He examined himself through the water and decided that it was identical to him, except one thing that jumped out at him: his eyes were a deep, piercing sapphire instead of being flaming gold. It startled him and he blinked repeatedly in rapid succession, which the reflection mirrored perfectly. So those are my eyes, Vader thought, but why do I not have the eyes of a sith? He was frightened by that thought, the possibility of losing his power was more grievous than losing his life, and he tried to conjure the darkness inside him. He tapped into his reserve of hatred and called upon his deepest fears, yet he found none. His inside so devoid of everything that it was as if he was simply a hollowed shell, and nothing existed within.  

“Wait,” He thought, feeling disturbed, “Stop, Stop!”

And he did. He halted abruptly in midair and levitated as if the very laws of physics did not exist. Then with a mighty splash, he fell face first into the water. It stunned him as he struggled to not drown, but he relaxed when he found out that it was extremely shallow, probably less than an inch or so. When he stood up, he instinctively brought his hand up to remove his wet robe. He was shocked again when his fingers touched the perfectly dry and snug leather tunic and not a trace remained of its contact with the liquid. He curiously knelt down and felt it with his hand, running his fingers through it and feeling its texture against his skin. It wasn’t water, it felt more like...quicksilver?

“What?” He muttered to himself, immensely confused at what was occurring as he surveyed his surroundings, “Where am I?”

“You’ve been here before, my dear boy.” A familiar voice said behind him.

“Qui-Gon?” Vader said in disbelief, turning around and gazing at his former master. He appeared so real in flesh and blood, his long hair flowing and his cheeks sanguine, wearing the same robes and the same fatherly smile. “How? You...you died!”

“I did, Anakin. But what do you believe more: your memory or your own eyes?” Qui-gon asked, approaching Vader slowly. Vader gaped at his deceased master, or the apparition of it, and froze dumbfounded in place like a statue. Qui-gon opened his arms and readied himself to share a brotherly embrace with his former Padawan, but Vader suddenly snapped out his stupor and began backing away frantically, raising his hands to shield himself as if Qui-gon was carrying a deadly contagion. Shades of amber and gold floated across his azure irises as his face darkened into an anguished grimace. 

“I’m not Anakin.” He shook his head as if he was trying to get rid of an unpleasant and bothersome thought. He declared viciously in an intimidating voice loudly toward Qui-gon: “Anakin was weak, and Anakin is now dead, I killed him!” 

“Perhaps that’s why you are here with me, Anakin. Perhaps this is a place for those that have passed.” Qui-gon grinned warmly, seemingly unmoved by his former Padawan’s sudden outburst. He rubbed his hand in his beard and looked up, signaling for Vader to do the same, “Look, my friend, look.”

“No…” Vader murmured, his features twisting as if he was in physical pain, he grabbed his head and drove his hands into his curls, pulling at them like a madman. “No! You are not real, you are not real! My master is dead, Anakin is dead, but I am neither of them! I am Darth Vader, dark lord of the Sith! I am the feared enforcer of the empire and I have brought peace and security to this galaxy! Leave me! Leave me!” He felt his anger rise again within him and he tried to tap into his power once more. A brief moment of relief came over him as he felt the force energy tingle at his fingertips. Realizing that his limitless power has returned, an insidious malice spread over his heart as darkness drew a screen over his already fractured conscience. He crackled with fiendish laughter as bursts of sith lightning flashed across the surface of the water with the swiftness of thunderbolts and struck the defenseless Qui-gon savagely, instantly evaporating him. His old master disappeared with a light “puff” and exploded into tiny, sparkling particles that danced in the air and slowly settled down. It became harder and harder to see as Vader’s vision was once more obscured by the white cloud that gathered around where Qui-gon once stood. Then the air stirred as if it had a life of its own, and Qui-gon continued:

“You are the chosen one, Anakin.”

“Arrggghhhh!” Vader shot more bolts of force lightning blindly into the mist, enraged that he was incapable of silencing his former master. But the voice did not come from any particular spot. Instead, Qui-gon’s disembodied voice sounded as if it came from every particle of air and water. It spoke again lovingly and softly, and many echoes followed:

“May the force be with you…” 

“Where are you!” Vader bellowed and snapped his head around, purple streaks of lightning erupting from his hands, eager for a target to decimate, “Where are you!”

“I’m always here, my dear boy, whenever you need me.” Qui-gon’s words drifted through the haze like a sinuous stream of smoke, and Vader felt the ground beneath him quiver. The endless pond of water stirred at the mellow resonation of Qui-gon’s final words and suddenly, the solid plane he stood on dissolved and swallowed him like quicksand as he struggled and roared in hatred. Torrents of quicksilver quickly overwhelmed and inundated the dark lord and he felt as if he was about to suffocate. As the last light faded from his vision and everything fell dark, Vader, soaked with sweat, jumped and gasped for air in his meditation chamber.

 

***In the Communication Room***

 

“Lord Vader.” The hologram of the Chagrian grand vizier made a slight bow, “How may I assist you?”

“Forward this transmission to the emperor,” Vader replied in a somewhat impatient tone. He respected Mas Amedda as a capable administrator but despised his background as a bureaucrat and politician. The vizier’s oily tone and manners reminded him of a slimy, aquatic creature, which was Vader’s perception of Chagrians anyway. He was often irritated when his transmissions to Palpatine were redirected to Amedda because of the emperor’s secluded nature, but recently it has increased drastically in frequency. As the emperor withdrew from Imperial politics and delved deeper into ancient sith sorcery and mysticism, the Chagrian vizier might as well be the de facto ruler of the empire, managing the nuances of the ever-expanding bureaucracy and military.

“I’m afraid the emperor is occupied, Lord Vader.” The vizier reported after checking with a screen. Vader’s face sunk and he felt a desire to strangle the vizier, but with some effort, he suppressed the thought and maintained his calm facade. Mas Amedda continued, not sensing anything as Vader’s expressions were hidden beneath his hood, and said: “I will notify him immediately of your request. If he is able, he will return the transmission as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Vader responded and reached to shut off the projector, but not before the vizier was able to interject and prolong Vader’s vexation:

“The emperor has requested that I review with you the most recent Imperial agenda at your return, Lord Vader, which I assume would be tomorrow. Allow me to propose…” The grand vizier conversed with an aide beside him, but what they discussed was inaudible. He nodded and dismissed the aide as he resumed, “At the tenth standard hour, a thorough exposition of the Imperial agenda, within my office. Does that suit your liking, Lord Vader?”

“Yes,” Vader said and promptly shut off the projector before the grand vizier could say another word. He was about to blast something with the force to vent off the anger building within him, but fortunately, the transmitter beeped again as the emperor’s name flashed on the screen.

“Master.” Vader knelt down on the platform as Palpatine’s head appeared before him. The sith emperor’s face was hidden behind a deep hood as his sonorous voice filled the communication chamber:

“You are troubled, my young apprentice.” The emperor remarked in a cryptic tone. Vader interpreted his words more as a statement than a question. He knew very well the immeasurable power of the sith emperor and his powerful connection to the dark side of the force. He would not doubt that the emperor was capable of knowing his emotion hundreds of light years away, and he could only hope that the emperor will never find out of the heretical vision that he had during his meditations. Contemplating his options, Vader chose to stay silent and waited for the emperor to continue as he tried to formulate the best response. But the emperor said nothing more and Vader felt his gaze burn into him like a branding iron. He said hastily:

“Yes, master. I had a vision of the past, of my former life. I need your power and teachings in the dark side of the force.” He said attentively in a low voice. He was wise enough to know that lying to Palpatine will backfire, thus he chose his words cautiously to be truthful and clear,  but at the same time unassuming and unrevealing. “Teach me, master, and invoke the power of the dark side to cleanse me of my weakness,”

“Good...my young apprentice. The force is strong within you...” Palpatine said in his deep and enigmatic voice. Vader felt some relief that his master did not inquire further of what the vision was, and he decided that despite him being troubled by what he saw, it was better to keep it a secret. The vision, he concluded, must be a byproduct of his exhaustion today, and he was simply hallucinating. To his ailing mind, that explanation, though somewhat unconvincing, was satisfactory for the moment. He pulled himself away from his thoughts and focused again on his master’s words, who seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts as well when he spoke:

“Remember those who have wronged you, let those painful memories be ingrained deep into your soul. Remember those who have injured you, and let their wound carve into your flesh. Remember those that hate you, and hate them back in greater passion. Let the resentment and hatred fill your very being, and let the agony and suffering clear your mind. For pain leads to fear, fear leads to anger, and anger leads to hate, and such is the path to the dark side of the force, for the purest and ruinous hatred burns brighter than any flame, and that flame is the profaned flame of unlimited POWER!” Darth Sidious chuckled wickedly as he gazed at Vader, who could feel something rouse within him at his master’s invocation. The painful memories reemerged in his mind, but the pain it caused was dwarfed by the other intoxicating sensation that he felt: something was swelling in his chest and pushing at his ribs, a deep craving to crush and destroy unfolded internally as more memories resurfaced. Every mark and brand from his former slave masters began burning once more, he remembered the whips cracking, he remembered the vile gale and the sand storm barraging against his skin, sand...He remembered how aggravating it was to get sand out of his shoes, it's coarse texture against his skin, how it smudged into his wounds and the piercing pain it caused. The tables and terminals shook as the dark lord’s fury surrounded him like a maelstrom, ravaging everything in his path. Darth Sidious crackled in evil laughter as his apprentice unleashed waves and waves and raw potential: “Yes...YES! Feel the hatred! I can feel the tremendous power within you, Lord Vader, your connection to the dark side is strong…You have already become more powerful than any Jedi, and soon you will become more powerful than any Sith Lord that has ever lived…” He paused for a moment and added slowly, “And you will one day become even more powerful than me."

“Never, master.” Vader brought his anger under control quickly at his master’s last comment. He knew that his master was testing his loyalty, and despite his immense power, he was no match for Darth Sidious, at least at that moment. He still had much to learn from his master, whose power might dwindle as he age and wither, but his knowledge in the dark side of the force could only increase, knowledge which Vader needed and craved. He knelt down once again humbly and brought his proud head low, “The rule of two is no more…no longer will one master possess power, and one apprentice desire it. Now one master will hold power eternally, and many shall obey. I devote my absolute loyalty to you, my master, and to the empire, to the justice, freedom, and security of the galaxy.”

“Good…” Darth Sidious smiled at his apprentice’s words, his amber eyes beaming with satisfaction. “Good…You have exceeded all expectations, Lord Vader, I am most pleased with your progress, my friend.”

“Thank you, my master.” 

“Now, I could sense that Darth Tyranus is with you, my young apprentice.” Sidious suddenly changed his topic and gazed inquisitively at Vader, “I take it that your mission was a success.”

“Yes, master,” Vader replied steadily, but he was tentative again about how much of Count Dooku’s...perplexing behavior he should disclose to his master: from his staunch resistance, the fierce duel, and the absurd words he uttered during his delirium from being tortured by sith lightning. Vader has always considered Count Dooku a friend of some sort from his past, and he knew that disclosing such information would likely lead to Dooku’s death. But Dooku was already hell-bent on thinking that returning to Coruscant equaled death, so it wouldn’t matter if he said anything…

“You have more to say, my young apprentice, don’t you?” Sidious continued, and although Vader could not see through the shadow of his hood, he could sense a smile emerging on his master’s face. He remained perfectly inert and replied:

“No,” His response was short and cool, and he hastily added, “my master." 

He could not tell whether the emperor was satisfied or not with his response, nor did he have any time to think before his master continued, seemingly unbothered: “I expect that you would attend the grand celebration for the fifth year of the birth of this empire, my friend. You have served the galaxy well, and I grant you this time to distract yourself with some simple pleasures that you have so long denied yourself. I have heard that you constructed a fortress retreat on Coruscant close to the Western Sea, is that correct?”

“Yes, master,” Vader responded, wondering about the hidden meaning behind the emperor’s inquiry. Was he dissatisfied with the cost of the building? Hardly so, the fortune Vader spent on his retreat was hardly a tenth of the astronomical number the emperor spent on constructing his residence, the imperial palace. Furthermore, the credits came from his coffers, not the Imperial treasury, thus his master had no reason to complain.

“Would it be operational at the time of the celebration?” The emperor asked.

“Would it be…operational?” Vader was surprised for a moment at that sudden question, uncertain how to answer. The emperor has never interfered in his private affairs, and he has always seemed disinterested at Vader’s personal holdings. He considered for a moment and replied: “It is operational now, my master, but what for?”

“I believe it would be suitable that a gala be held at your palace retreat, as I heard it was a pleasant and elegant place, unlike your main fortress which is…” The Emperor chuckled slightly, “very much like you, my friend, brutal but efficient. I would like you to host the gala yourself in your retreat and it would be dedicated to you personally, your great achievements and service for the galactic empire.”

“A gala?” Vader was staggered by shock and anger, he disliked celebrations, and he hated galas and dancing with a passion. He was sure that Palpatine knew it as well as he did, thus the request came across to him as absurd. He quickly suggested an alternate solution: “I would be honored to hold it on my grounds, but I have duties elsewhere during the week of celebrations. The rebel scums, pirates, and deserters do not rest, so nor could I. I have a campaign to…”

“Darth Maul will deal with the nuances.” the emperor said in a tone that indicated that he wanted no further discussion on the topic, “Have a well-deserved vacation, my friend.”

“But…” 

“Not a single word more, Lord Vader.” The emperor declared ominously, “I wait for your report on Coruscant.” The transmission ended right after.

Vader knelt there in silence, his anger fuming. Then without a word, he blasted the transmitter into smithereens and silently left the room. 

 

***In a dark, isolated cell***

 

Count Dooku groaned and attempted to rise from his seat, but his fatigued body failed him miserably. As he felt his legs gave out beneath him, he tried to mitigate the burden of his weight by leaning against the wall, but the surface was far more slippery than he anticipated. A loud clang reverberated in the tiny cell room as he knocked over a metal tray on his downward trajectory, followed by a deafening screech as he topped over the chair, dragging it unwitting across the floor. He collapsed at the corner of the cell as his final feeble attempt came to no avail, lamenting at the egregious state of his health from his depleted stamina and torture suffered at the hands of the younger sith.

The door to his cell opened. Dooku tried to collect himself, but the last vestige of strength has left his body. He thought ironically that a sith lord as powerful as him would suffer such humiliation. He slumped in the corner with his head hanging limply, his eyes gazing dreamily at the metal panels that composed the floor. The weak and rasping voice he spoke in would cause any listener pity for how forlorn and crestfallen the man sounded, a barely audible whisper moaning like a cold, lifeless breeze in the midst of winter:

“I’m sorry for all the noise, guard, I’ll keep quiet now.”

No response came. 

“And if you could, please bring me some water.”

The hallway and the cell were quieter than the vacuum of space. Dooku blinked his eyes a few times and groaned again, pain shooting from every nerve ending in his body. He looked up slowly to see his visitor, anticipating it to be a stormtrooper or officer checking on him because of all the clamor. Instead, he saw the sulking frame of Darth Vader hovering over him like the specter of death, surrounded by an aura of darkness so sullen that even the shadows in the room retreated from his presence. Dooku exhaled, a sigh mingled with self-mocking laughter, and greeted him: 

“Lord Vader, how unexpected.”

Vader removed his cloak in a quick motion and threw it away carelessly. He pointed his gloved hand at Dooku, who closed his eyes as if accepting his fate, anticipating more volleys of devastating force lightning to blast him to oblivion. Instead, a warm tingling crept across his skin and spread all over his body. He winced and startled at the sudden feeling, uncertain what has transpired. It felt as if someone poured a jar of honey over his head, and he was dissolving in the sweet, sticky substance as it penetrated his skin, bone, and marrow. It was not the most enjoyable thing to experience, but compared to the immense anguish of sith lightning, that feeling might as well be heavenly. For a moment he entered a hazy state as the warm feeling melted him down to his core, and he felt every strained muscle relax and soften. His labored breathing stalled and slowed to normal, then suddenly he grimaced and jerked as if someone pinched him on his arm. The pain returned as his muscles stiffened again. He felt sore all over his body as if he just endured intense labor, and in certain spots a pricking sensation occurred. He looked up at the younger sith and saw that Vader gazed at him, or more accurately, gazed through him absentmindedly, his arm still outstretched and his hand gesticulating in a way Dooku couldn’t comprehend.

“What have you...?” Dooku asked but stopped midway through his sentence at the realization that he was speaking normally again, his aching throat healed in an instant. He slowly rose and stood up on his feet, still shocked to the extent that he was incapable of formulating words. In the meanwhile, Vader stood and watched without a single utterance, his face shrouded as usual by the shadow of his hood. Silence filled the room for a second as Dooku felt every inch of his body, running his hands over his legs, arms, and chest, and by every passing second his amazement grew. 

“Baffling! This is incredible! What power, Lord Vader, what miraculous power do you possess?” Dooku beamed as he grinned widely, genuinely impressed. There was, however, a shade of envy and deep desire in his eyes as he focused his penetrating gaze on the younger sith as if attempting to peer through him and learn the power for himself. 

“Take a seat, count.” Vader ignored Dooku’s words altogether, “I have a few questions to ask you, and I have a few demands to make.”

“Ahhh…” The Count exclaimed with a hint of irony as he flipped over the topped chair and sat down, “Have you healed me so you could resume your session from earlier?”

“I have no time for babbling, Count,” Vader announced to the older man frigidly as he sat down on the opposite side. It was a surprising gesture as Vader’s domineering nature has made him prefer belittling those he spoke, both in a literal and figurative sense. The only person he kneels before is the emperor, and he considers no one else his equal. But sitting across of the Count in a cramped, dark cell as the two men brooded in silence was something Vader has never done before, nor would anyone imagine him doing. 

For a few occasions in those dozens of minutes of silence, it seemed as though Vader was about to speak, but every time he stopped himself and not a single word nor syllable escaped his lips. The Count simply waited patiently, unwilling to aggravate the volatile young sith, who from his experience was quite prone to outbursts of both cruel words and excruciating lightning. But those minutes were not wasted either, for despite the lack of verbal communication, a deeper communion took place. A communion that words would fail for what was unspoken had the gravity that what was spoken did not. At long last, Vader formulated himself adequately and asked, speaking slowly and hesitantly contrary to his usual haughty demeanor:

“What did Qui-gon say to you in your visions?” He suppressed his voice, his eyes wandering across the room anxiously as if he was a young boy asking a shameful question, “And what did he look like? Did he look real? Or did it appear like a...like a ghost of sorts?” 

Dooku was surprised by what he said, but he was more so surprised by the way he said it. It felt as if he was imploring the Count to give up a salacious secret about a high ranking official. Dooku resigned into his memories for a moment and thought of the question thoroughly. Then he answered in no greater certainty than how Vader had posed the question:

“It was a disembodied voice at first, whispering to me softly like a breeze rustling through fallen leaves. The words that were spoken were incomprehensible, nor could I tell who the speaker was, yet it was soothing. I knew that it was not a delusion for the voice was always accompanied by a disturbance in the force, but I do not know which preceded which. Soon it grew stronger and then one day, it took a corporal form in that of my old Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn. I was taking a stroll across the palace gardens, and I saw him stand calmly in a courtyard surrounded by shrubs of roses and lilac. The air around him warped and I knew that he was real, but at the same time, he was transparent, and I saw fallen petals drift through his body as if he was a...a hologram. But when he spoke, there was clarity, and it was unmistakably the voice of Qui-gon that conversed with me, somehow across the retrains of time, space, and mortality. He spoke of the force, he spoke of you, he spoke of your destiny…” Dooku trailed off before he could say any words that would trigger a violent reaction in Vader, as he knew very well the consequences of doing so.

Vader rose abruptly from where he sat and swung the door open telepathically. On his way of rushing out, he stopped suddenly and his head snapped back at the Count: “If you dare mention a single word of this conversation or of what occurred on this ship, I will make you suffer.” He emphasized the last word and paused intently, ensuring that Dooku has fully comprehended the seriousness of his statement, and continued, his tone turning dark and sinister: “You are the only person who survived the full might of my rage, but if I receive a second chance, I would ensure that you die, Count.” 

Dooku responded with a slight nod, his lips pursed and his face was as solemn as a gravestone. Vader continued:

“As of healing you? The emperor wanted you unscathed.” He stated and pointed his gloved hand at Dooku menacingly, “And for your sake, Count, all that transpired earlier in the day on Serenno was that I walked into the palace, we talked briefly, and you walked out with me, do you understand? I’m sure you are more useful to me, to the emperor, and to the empire alive than dead, don’t let wishful thinking tell you that I hold an inkling of compassion toward you, old man.”

“For sure.”

“For the sake of my safety, and your safety. For the last thing I want to endure, or anyone for that matter is my master’s wrath. Between Emperor Palpatine and I, you would find me the milder and more forgiving one.”

“Of course, Lord Vader.”

“Soldier! Escort the Count to an officer’s quarters while he waits for landing and transfer.” Vader signaled to a stormtrooper and then called forward another officer who passed by: “Prepare my shuttle for the surface.”

Before he left, he shot a glance at the Count: “I will meet you again, Count.”

“Likewise, my old friend.” Dooku nodded with a slight smile spreading across his features, “May the force serve you well, Lord Vader.”

The younger man paused for a second and picked up his pace in silence and disappeared in the darkness of the long corridor. 

  
  



	2. A Mundane Day on Coruscant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Vader returned to Coruscant after his excursion to Serenno and plunged back into the nuanced affairs of being the second most powerful man in the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars and any of its characters. (Unless I wake up tomorrow and become George Lucas)

***The Grand Vizier’s office***

 

“And of course, the security measures of the capital must be impeccable as the week of celebrations approach. The emperor has demanded that the number of checkpoints to be doubled and the guards at each are tripled. We could not afford an attack of any sorts during the grand parade. All holonetwork stations will halt their regular schedule, and a special programming that commemorates the birth of the empire will be broadcasted…”

Vader sunk back deeper into the comfort of the armchair, barely listening to the grand vizier’s monotone voice. He played out the vision he saw during his meditation again and again in his mind, brooding over every detail. He tried not to think about it, it was a vision after all, and he doubts that it held any more meaning than the old rambling about him being the chosen one or so on. But something about the vision unsettled him, perhaps it was how vivid it appeared, and the ill feeling would not cease. He fidgeted with a lock of his hair and yawned, not even bothering to hide it. Instead, he wanted to get his point across through Mas Amedda’s thick and bloated head that he should shut the kriff up.

The Chagrian, as usual, did not take the hint. In fact, he was not even looking at Vader as he continued his tirade about some obscure theory of economics and how it could be better applied in the next year for maximum growth. Vader felt a growing urge within him to just stand up and leave the office, and even if he had done so, the grand vizier would probably not notice and continue his lecture.

Why am I even listening to this? The dark lord thought to himself in vexation as he tried to make sense of what Mas Amedda was saying. If this were a military agenda, at least it would be relevant to his duties as the enforcer of the law and the emperor’s will. But the grand vizier was talking about trade routes and inflation, which irked Vader even more. In what ludicrousness did Palpatine decide it was a good idea to have Amedda relay such pointless trivia to him? Vader suddenly stiffened and shot up from his seat, he interrupted the grand vizier rashly and said:

“How is any of this information relevant? I’ve had enough of your rubbish, Chagrian, go bother the Imperial council or the treasury with this nonsense. Tell me about the hunt for fugitive Jedis; I want to hear about that.”

The grand vizier’s face sunk in deep displeasure, and he licked his lips with his forked tongue while glaring at Vader: an act of blatant disrespect. Both him and Vader knew that they were the emperor’s left and right hand. Despite Vader’s power as a warrior, the Chagrian is in no danger defying him for he was the central apparatus for the bureaucracy's smooth functioning as a heart is for a body’s survival. He flipped through the pages of his digital report and said: “That will be addressed later, Lord Vader. We must now address the contracts with the InterGalactic Banking Clan...”

Vader sunk back into his seat again and massaged his temples with his eyes closed. The gentle voice of Qui-gon emerged in his mind once more, telling him of his destiny. He growled internally and frowned deeply as he fought to suppress the whispers in his mind. He felt his fists clench in anger as Qui-gon refused to be silenced and continued talking, his voice now mingled with Mas Amedda’s tedious report. The armchairs in the room began shifting subtly as the dark lord’s power seeped from him as his senses were overwhelmed with resentment. The grand vizier continued, oblivious to the pieces of furniture moving across the floor until a heavy couch slipped off the carpet and screeched as it slid across the wooden paneling.

“What?” The vizier snapped his head around in alarm and confusion, “What was that?”

“The furniture is trying to get away from you, grand vizier, I suppose I’m not the only one repulsed by you in this room.” Vader snorted and waved his hand, “You can continue now, I’m still not listening.”

“Right…” Mas Amedda resumed as if he was never disturbed in the first place, “Where was I? Yes, the contracts with the Banking Clan and all contracts for that matter must be refreshed as most contracts expire in five years. Such contracts must be filed within twenty days of expiration, otherwise, it would have to be approved again by the Imperial board of commerce, which would be an unnecessary waste of time. As you are in charge of the Imperial military, Lord Vader, Ensure that all the shipyards and suppliers are aware that they must file immediately, so production is not delayed.”

“That will go to the Moffs, and they simply need my signature on the contracts as an official approval by the Imperial military…” He trailed off mid-sentence as he suddenly remembered something, “Contracts…” He murmured to himself, engrossed in thought. He rose abruptly and began walking toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

“The report is not finished…” Mas Amedda protested and rose to his full height. Nothing displeases him more than his business being interrupted. “The emperor will not be pleased about this, Lord Vader! He will...”

Or will he? Vader wouldn’t know for he already left the intolerable room. 

 

***In a spacious conference chamber***

 

“Sorry sir, the meeting is in session, please wait...ECCHHH...” The officer clutched his throat, his eyes bulging as he levitated in mid-air. With a loud crash, he flew into the corner of the room like a weightless ragdoll and collapsed into a pile. Vader surveyed the dread-filled faces peering at him and snarled: “Anyone else?”

“What is the meaning of this!” Wilhuff Tarkin rose from the end of the conference table, his stern and icy eyes locked with the Vader's blazing golden irises. He stood stiffly, and his knuckles pale as he pressed down upon the table. He then turned and glanced at the officer slumped in the corner, who ceased moving altogether. Tarkin frowned and grimaced as he averted his gaze from the lifeless officer as a pool of dark red, sticky liquid grew beneath him, gushing profusely from where the back of his head collided with the wall. He gestured for the guards to remove the body and returned his attention to Vader: “You have managed to recklessly maim, possibly kill a capable officer that would be useful to the Imperial military, Vader. This behavior is unacceptable.”

“I will do as I please, Tarkin,” Vader replied darkly. He waved his gloved hand and declared: “Leave us.”

The officers swarmed out the room in such haste as if they were afraid that the last one to leave would suffer the same fate as their unfortunate colleague. After the door was securely sealed and the officers dispersed, Vader began: “I have a contract that needs to be renewed.”

“I fail to see how that is anyhow my concern.” Tarkin countered in a dismissive tone, a hint of anger in his voice, “I would be displeased, Lord Vader, if my meeting was disrupted because of some inconsequential ordeal of yours.”

“I care not whether you deem it inconsequential. I deem it important. Thus it is important.” Vader asserted. Tarkin sneered at his statement and proceeded to reveal a hidden terminal inside a bronze sculpture. With the press of a button, the conference desk and chairs transformed and folded over into compact blocks as they sunk into the floor, then a vermilion carpet displaying the Imperial Insignia was unfurled by a hidden mechanism. An elegant and curvilinear work desk rose from the paneling and orientated itself in the right direction, its dark and polished surface sparkled in the sunlight. Tarkin took a step back and half sat, half leaned on it, his face glowing with vanity at the egotistical display of his wealth.

“Impressed?” Tarkin smirked smugly as he looked at Vader, who observed the automated room with great interest. “It was all set up last week by Dyon Dynamics, and I ought to say that it is marvelous. I could now work, conduct meetings, hold briefings, plan strategies, and play pool all in the same room.”

“Play pool?” Vader inquired at the grand moff’s comment, “Since when did you start playing pool?”

A mysterious smile emerged on Tarkin’s face that intrigued Vader more. Tarkin, much like Vader, is a stoic and unsmiling man. What would motivate such an unfeeling man’s glacial visage to beam with warmth? Vader pondered and silently cursed at the abnormal behavior that Dooku and Tarkin are exhibiting. He has a subtle feeling that everyone is hiding something from him. He is no stranger to deceit and intrigue, after all, he is on Coruscant, the black, corrupt heart of corporations and lobbies. But the austere Tarkin? The only secrets he holds are classified military information, which are not secrets to Vader because nothing in the Imperial military is confidential to him. He believed, or he would like to believe, that he knew more than Tarkin in that regard. But what he sensed was different, it was inexplicable. He attempted to slither his way into Tarkin’s mind with his talents in the force, but the barriers stoutly guarding Tarkin’s mind were just as firm as Dooku’s defenses. He remembered his late master saying: It only works on the weak minded. And Tarkin, compared to even the most exceptional of the empire’s military, had a formidable mind and character that would belittle even the finest of his peers. 

“I retract that statement.” Tarkin conceded, the smile still lingering on his face. He stared down at the floor and spoke in a musing manner: “There is a pool table here...somewhere down there, but I do not play pool. It’s merely included in the package when they renovated this room.” He nodded and his face hardened, raising his voice, he said: “And I assume you did not come here to inquire about the interior decoration of my office?”

“I want to renew the contract with the Imperial Ministry of Communications for the rights to broadcast the Boonta Eve Classic and other pod races.”

“I’m afraid you are in the wrong place then, my friend.” Tarkin sat down behind his desk and began organizing all his files. He then looked up, seeing Vader remaining where he was, added sarcastically: “And thank you for impeding an important military meeting because of this contract, that was very considerate of you.”

“That contract needs your signature, Tarkin. You are the governor of the outer rim.” 

“Why do you presume I know where some obscure race takes place…” 

“Pod racing is not obscure!” Vader rebuked him angrily as if he was personally insulted. He approached the desk, prompting Tarkin to look up coolly. Vader continued: “And I assure you that pod racing is a far superior hobby than playing pool.”

“Leave my office.” Tarkin snapped. He is the only person capable of conveying his exasperation without raising his voice or changing his tone. Despite being expressionless to a fault, Tarkin’s brevity and conciseness never failed to inform others of his true feelings. 

“Not before I have that contract renewed.” Vader stood his ground just as firmly. 

Sensing that Vader is determined to remain until he received the contract he desired and unwilling to delay his business any further because of this charade, Tarkin groaned and turned to his assistance droid: “Fetch me…” He turned to Vader, “Where is this race of yours?”

“Tatooine.”

“Tatooine? Odd man you are…” He turned and commanded his Droid: “Fetch me from the archives file collection CA-Y-TAT-...” He paused and turned to Vader again: “Is it classified under entertainment or sports?”

“Sports.”

“Fetch me file CA-Y-TAT-SP-P0000” Tarkin ordered. Despite their differences and bitter bickering that occurred intermittently, Vader respected Tarkin over any other administrator and commander. His military upbringing imbued Tarkin with extraordinary discipline and strength that in Vader’s perspective, has no parallel in all the galaxy. His memory was no short of photographic, and his efficiency and work ethic was inhuman. Deep inside, Vader hoped, no, Vader knew, that Tarkin respected him as well. Despite his tendency toward solutions that are “spontaneous” and “brutally efficient,” which Tarkin despised, they have fought alongside each other for years. One led from the front as an invincible juggernaut, while the other planned in the back as a brilliant tactician, they resonated with each other as soldiers and warriors. They both knew the brutality of war, and they both realized that politicians would not bring peace to the galaxy with their pitiful sniveling. The delicate flower of peace could only be guarded with the iron gauntlet of war, and it was up to people like Tarkin and Vader to maintain the fragile order in the galaxy. 

“There, the Boonta Eve Classic…” Tarkin opened the file and began reading, his brows furrowing into a deep frown as he continued, “The Hutt Cartel runs this? I did not sign this, and I have no memory of any contact as such. This was signed by Jabba…” His mouth twisted into a contemptuous sneer, “The bloated one...Dealing with that monstrous slug would be nothing short of a nightmare.”

“The Hutt cartel runs everything on Tatooine.” Vader’s face sunk, “Smuggling, trafficking, slavery…” He emphasized the last word with an accent of morose hatred that gained Tarkin’s attention, who looked up and scrutinized the young man before him with a certain interest. Vader did not notice and he continued, pacing around the room in great agitation: “Jabba is just one part of a larger network of a criminal empire...There are many more...Gardulla the Elder as well, I want to drive my blade through her heart and watch her suffer!” He suddenly cried out and exploded into a fit of rage so intense that the whole room quivered from his power. Tarkin did not even flinch. Instead, he flipped through the files one more time and said:

“I do not seem to have the newest contract. I only have the one that is about to expire.” Tarkin pushed the file toward Vader, signaling him to take a look himself. Vader inspected every page of the record thoroughly and gazed at it intensely until he came to the same realization. He returned the folder to Tarkin telepathically and began pacing anxiously again.

“Well, that concludes this ordeal, which has been an immense waste of time.” Tarkin rose from his desk and began typing into his holo-communicator, “Now if you would excuse me, Lord Vader, I must return to…” He paused abruptly, his eyes squinting and his thin lips pursed into almost an invisible line. The holo-communicator slipped from his hand as if it had a life of its own and jumped off of his desk, drawing a perfect parabola into Vader’s open palm. He glanced at the name on display and said to a silent, but enraged Tarkin:

“Ardus Kaine can wait, grand moff.” He toyed with the communicator as Tarkin glared at him with murderous intent, “I want to you use your authority as the grand moff and bring the Hutt Cartel to the table.”

“You are testing my patience, Lord Vader.” The grand moff raised his chin slightly, his sharp, blue eyes never once straying from that of Vader’s. Vader broke off the intense glaring and looked away, fidgeting with Tarkin’s communicator as if it was a toy. It hovered just above the sith lord’s gloved hand, spinning and swirling randomly, sometimes bobbling from side to side. The younger man’s insolence seemed to have splintered Tarkin’s last straw, who drove his clenched fist into the table in an uncharacteristic gesture and enunciated his fury:

“If you would like to prolong that contract, I suggest that you exit this office immediately and see to your business. I am the grand moff of three trillion systems and hundreds of thousands of worlds; I am not your assistant who ought to deal with your nuance! If this was a contract to bolster our empire, then I will gladly sign it. But if it is for your wry amusement, then stop bothering me with this nonsense!” 

“You know, grand moff...” Vader let Tarkin’s words drift right across his mind and caught the holo-communicator in midair, sending it back to Tarkin’s desk with the force and landing it smoothly. He stopped in his pacing and looked as if he was reconsidering his behavior, but when he spoke, the tone of his voice was sly with a sinister undertone. Although his hood concealed his features, one could only imagine the impish grin that must have accompanied the mischievous words he uttered. He spoke pensively, more to himself than anyone else, but he made sure it was loud enough for Tarkin to hear: “And I should leave, I suppose, and I should stop by before the emperor’s office on the way as well…” He turned to face the grand moff with a wicked smile on his face: “And let’s say that a certain battle station would become operational soon, and I would recommend to the emperor who should be the chief officer of said battle station…” He paused intentionally and winked at Tarkin, whose face grew more stern and unpleasant by the second. Vader continued, barely able to control the triumph in his voice: “And what should I say, grand moff? Who should I recommend to the emperor?”

Vader indulged in that moment of sadism as his face grew sardonic. He savored every single word as he spoke in a serious tone, his eyes, filled with mockery, gazing vehemently at Tarkin’s, who returned his glare in equal intensity: “I would say to the emperor that Director Orson Krennic is eminently qualified for the position, and he would have my complete and wholehearted endorsement. He is an efficient and competent director, don’t you think, grand moff?” 

“Expect contact with the Hutt Cartel before the end of today.” Tarkin grabbed the communicator with his skeletal hand, his every muscle tensing to restrain his anger from exploding in the most unseemly and disgraceful manner. He then dropped it on the table and walked with even strides toward Vader until they were barely a foot apart from each other. Despite the sith lord’s superior height, the grand moff’s domineering air could rival Vader’s aura of intimidation, which apparently had no effect on Tarkin for he stared directly into Vader’s eyes and muttered through clenched teeth, pronouncing every syllable with the force and viciousness of a sharp knife being stabbed repeatedly into the chest of a person’s worst nemesis: “Now get out of my office.”

 

***Darth Vader’s Fortress, Palace Sector, Coruscant”**

 

The mighty skyline of Coruscant shone in the afternoon sun like jagged peaks rising on a mountain range, spires and towers rising through the ivory clouds so high that their peak could reach the constellations above. It was a great forest of steel and glass, the pinnacle of the amalgamation of the thousands of species in the galaxy and the peak of civilization. Surrounded by corporate headquarters of avant-garde architecture, the heart of Coruscant lied in the vast complex that became known as the “Supreme Triangle,” in which the Emperor’s majestic Imperial Palace was located. Not far beside it was Vader’s own establishment, a brutalist black spike of a structure that was hideous and graceless, its appearance reminded one of an elongated bludgeon. The outside was entirely covered with dark, non-reflective metallic panels that left no room for windows nor balconies. Except for a small landing pad, the whole building had no apparent external openings and appeared more like a sculpture than a residence of any kind. Vader has heard some complaints about how alien his unsettling fortress was among the gleaming and magnificent surroundings, but he scoffed at and dismissed those comments. (And then he tracked down those that made them and strangled them) Regardless, to him, the decadence and opulence that characterized those luxury residences was a symptom of the nasty disease called elitism, and the deadly contagion that caused the incurable condition was called politics. Despite the murmurs that his building glared out from the cityscape of Coruscant like a dark spot would compromise the beauty of a maiden’s face, he knew in his heart that this structure, designed by himself and modified to his heart’s content, housed the mighty warrior that kept all the other self-righteous, drooling fools safe. 

His private shuttle landed smoothly on the platform, and an intricate system of conveyors and lifts brought it into the interior docking bay. As he exited the cockpit, a servant was already awaiting him with a report of some kind in his hand. Vader ignored him and began refueling the ship until the servant, feeling somewhat anxious, approached him and said in a tiny voice:

“Welcome back, Lord Vader...I have a message…” 

“Is it from Moff Tarkin?” Vader interrupted without turning to look at the man. He knew the answer because Tarkin never sends his messages through old fashioned files. Despite being a veteran of many wars and an older man, the grand moff has always been able to keep up with the latest technological advancements. Vader, on the other hand, despised technology altogether and pushed the burden of communicating onto his many subordinates. 

“No, my lord.” The servant bowed his head and retreated slightly, sensing the displeasure of the dark lord. It was a wise choice on his part, as being Vader’s servant was equal to a death row sentence that could result in a swift execution at any time, and aggravating the executioner, who also happened to be the judge, was a poor decision. The man that served Vader currently has held his post for over two years, which was most likely a galactical record. 

“Then make yourself useful elsewhere, Reginald. You know what I do to useless people.” The threat rolled off Vader’s tongue matter of factly. Intimidating subordinates with death came as naturally to Vader as a “Good morning” was for other people. In fact, if one received such a threat, they should be relieved that they were in good standing with the dark lord, for most people never received the privilege of a warning. It meant that one had enough value for Vader for him to forgive an offense, which was as rare as the sun rising twice a single day.

“Yes, my lord.” The servant vanished quickly, and Vader was left to himself for some time. He opened the engine bay of his private transport and began inspecting the propulsion system. The ship was being somewhat unresponsive to him today, and he wasn’t sure whether it was because of his sloppiness in flying or because the ship needed a tune-up. He summoned his toolkit from the other side of the room and began unscrewing some modified components, his mind calculating the potential reasons why the ship was being sluggish earlier. His obsession with mechanical parts, pod racing, and hatred of sand were perhaps the only things that endured from his childhood. Pod races were the most thrilling thing ever to exist, unfortunately, they happened infrequently, and he could only see them on the holo-screen instead of experiencing it in person. But what really captivated him was the time he spent in the hanger and the engineering bay. He was not content when he was tinkering, he was simply at peace. The pain, anger, and hatred were pushed out of his mind when he was trying to find solutions, and he felt nothing but resolve. He knew that a sith should have no casual hobbies, only a passion for greater power. He justified to himself that this was not a hobby, rather it was a “distraction” that allowed him to clear his mind, and it was a practical skill to have.

What of pod racing? He didn’t even try to justify that. It wasn’t a part of Anakin Skywalker or Darth Vader, it was just a part of  _ him _ . For the past years, he has been hard at work in severing the thin strands that connected him to his former persona, but to him, cutting his connection to pod racing was like slicing open a major artery: that was how fatal it was. Pod racing was the only thing that he truly enjoyed, the thrill, the rush of adrenaline, and the omnipresent risk of death that made winning so much more satisfying. He paused in his task and recalled about the Boonta Eve classic that he won at the age of nine, one of his proudest achievements. Not only did he keep the trophy, he still owned the pod racer that brought him to victory against impossible odds after all these years. He couldn’t help but smile at the sweet memory, relishing it over and over again in his mind. Don’t blame me for enjoying pod racing, he thought, defending his action against an unseen accuser: the only time the air on Tatooine was cool and pleasant was when I was going nine hundred kilometers an hour. 

His holo-communicator rang suddenly, and he heard Reginald speaking on the other side: “My Lord Vader, Grand Moff Tarkin would like to speak to you. Should I put him on the projector in the main communications chamber?”

“Tell him to hold; I will be there shortly.” Vader threw his screwdrivers and wrenches into a pile in the corner and walked in quick strides toward the central turbolift. Finally, he thought, something was making progress today.

 

***In the communication chamber***

 

“Well?” Vader asked as Tarkin’s stern face emerged above the projector, “What of the Hutts?”

“That will be for later.” Tarkin blinked impatiently. It appeared that he was still irked by the extra chore Vader added on his already busy routine. He pulled out a file from somewhere off screen and began reading: “The Imperial Military Academy has made their selection regarding the most promising cadets in the class of ‘05. They have invited us for an inspection whenever we please.”

“It’s not fete week yet,” Vader said in a disgruntled tone. He was irritated by the lack of progress on Tarkin’s part, but he was also confused. The inspection of promising cadets occurs at the end of every year, where the most exceptional performers from the graduating class of the Imperial Academy go through many difficult trials to prove their worth to high ranking officials, like Tarkin and Vader, and the ones that were capable of impressing them will be hand-picked into the military high command. However, the new year was three weeks away. Thus he saw no point in going right now. He had other things, more important things, on his mind.

“This year’s celebration will be unprecedented in scale.” Tarkin shrugged, looking somewhat distracted from some noise off-screen. Vader heard someone open the door and called out in a feminine voice, who sounded like a handmaiden or secretary. Tarkin barked “Get out!” before returning his attention to Vader: “All academies finish earlier than usual, so if you are available tomorrow, then tomorrow it is.”

“Get my contract done first; then I will go,” Vader said. He has always enjoyed watching the competitions and trials in the Imperial Academy, seeing the talent of the youths that would become instruments of glory for the empire. But he would not be able to focus unless the contract was complete. Tarkin seemed indifferent to his response. He merely nodded and said:

“Tomorrow it is, then. It shouldn’t take long.” Tarkin reached to turn off the transmitter, not before adding: “By the way, I was talking to Mas Amedda earlier in the day…”

“Ha! That slime.” Vader snorted contemptuously, “Was he complaining about me leaving the meeting early. Well, you ought to congratulate me that I left before I gouged my eyes out with a spoon because I was seriously considering it.” 

“No, but that too,” Tarkin said with a barely perceptible smirk of amusement on his face. Vader was well aware the schism that has begun to emerge between the bureaucracy and the military. It was only natural that politicians and soldiers disliked each other. After all, the former talked for the sake of talking; the latter talked for the sake of doing. Tarkin continued: “The Imperial Council is being called into an emergency session by the Emperor in three days, he would like us to know in advance.”

“Emergency session?” Vader took his gloved hand and massaged his chin and forehead, feeling more angry by the second. Would the emperor allow him a moment of peace that was not spent rotting in a seat somewhere listening to the bickering of politicians? Fighting off an imminent headache, he asked: “Did Amedda say why?”

“Does he ever?” Tarkin replied wryly, his face suggesting that he was not pleased either by the development. “I had a full week off-world inspecting shipyards before Fete week, so I could return home for the holiday, but I suppose my travels will be delayed because of this.”

Wilhuff Tarkin, taking a vacation? Vader was incredulous at that thought, and he voiced his opinion candidly to the grand moff: “Since when did you travel for leisure? And returning to Eriadu? I thought you hated that smoldering furnace of a place.” 

“Not Eriadu, of course.” Tarkin replied, “But vacations, yes. I have sorted out all my business in advance, and I felt that I must leave Coruscant for some time ere I die of complications from dealing with bureaucrats all day.” He rubbed his chin in thought and concluded: “So that’s that…Imperial Academy tomorrow at the ninth standard hour, and an emergency council session in three days. That contract of yours will be done too, but that’s none of my business, really.” He nodded at Vader and shut the transmitter off.

*Thirty minutes later*

“Your high magnificence, my Lord, it is a distinguished privilege to be graced by your presence.” The pale twi’lek bowed so deep before the dark lord that the tentacles draped around his shoulders touched the floor. He grinned as complacently as he could, showing his sharp, crooked teeth, and he continued in a voice that only increased Vader’s dislike toward him: “I am your humble servant, Bib Fortuna, the majordomo of my illustrious master Jabba Desilijic Tiure, who…”

“Yes.” Vader interjected curtly, “You speak for the fat slug; we have established that. Now, where is my contract?”

“Eh…” Bib Fortuna seemed to have choked on something all of a sudden and paused with his mouth agape. He rubbed his hands together compulsively and bowed again at Vader; then he said: “Well, of course, my Lord. Jabba would be honored to transfer the right to host the Boonta Eve Classic and all lesser pod races to you, but there is one slight problem, my lord. The Boonta Eve Classic and other pod races generate immense revenue for the Hutt clan. Thus my Lord Jabba would like to strike a deal with your highness…”

“Fine, what does he want?” Vader asked menacingly, making his displeasure apparent. But internally, he knew that Jabba would not relent without a favorable bargain. The first time the contract was negotiated, the Hutt asked to be exempt from Imperial tariffs for his products. Vader granted it without a second thought: Jabba’s a smuggler, he doesn’t pay tariffs either way. “Tax exemption? Leniency from Imperial law?”

“He would like shipments of plasma, my lord.” Bib Fortuna replied, his red eyes sparkling with avarice, “He is constructing a fleet of barges that required plasma as fuel, which is an extremely rare substance. We have tried to acquire it through legal means…” Vader snorted at that statement. It would snow on Tatooine before Jabba the Hutt does something legal. “But we have not been able to do so for the optimal price. My lord Jabba humbly asks you to secure him a steady shipment of plasma, and he shall be most glad to sign the Boonta Eve Classic and other pod races under your illustrious name, my Lord Vader. A favor for a favor, what do you think?”

“Done.” Vader said, and a nasty smile spread on Bib Fortuna’s face, who bowed down deeply again as if he was intent on kissing the floor. His nodded eagerly, which simply made his head bobble in a ridiculous manner, and complimented:

“It is a great pleasure doing business with you, Lord Vader. Your contract and full broadcasting privilege will be delivered to your desk as soon as the first shipment of plasma arrives. I will send the details of the shipment, its quantity, and our desired price to you immediately. You will not lose a hundredth of a credit; the Hutt Clan will pay in full as long as you negotiate us a fair price and put us in contact with the contractor, we will proceed from there, and be forever grateful.”

“Good.” Vader said, and turned off the transmission. 

 

***In a dark, foreboding hall***

 

“Tell me, Reginald.” Vader pondered aloud as Reginald set a platter of food before the dark lord, “Where would one acquire a huge quantity of plasma?”

“Plasma, my lord?” Reginald asked, surprised by the sudden question, “I ought to think on that...Give me a moment, my lord, allow me to fetch you your beverages.”

Vader waved his hand and made a low sound of approval and Reginald disappeared into the hallway once more. He inspected the food that was served and found it agreeable enough. His servant seemed adept in deducing the things that appealed to his master’s taste, and that was one of the many reasons he is still alive today. Vader leaned back further into the chair as Reginald returned with a platter of colorful drinks, from which Vader fetched the cup of water. Carefully, his servant set the rest on the other end of the table and stood with perfect docility at the dark lord’s side, and as Vader began eating, he summarized:

“Plasma occurs in natural settings when gas is ionized and heated into high enough temperatures. It could be concentrated and used as a weapon, or its high potential energy could also be harnessed as a fuel. However, it is extremely rare, and it is difficult to mine, making it an extremely expensive substance.” He paused, and seeing that no response was elicited from the dark lord, he continued, “There is one planet, however, that is very rich in plasma. The planet’s name is Naboo, a picturesque and pastoral place. The core and mantle of Naboo have great reserves of plasma as how most habitable planets have a great reserve of magma. It is located in the mid-rim territories and it is loyal to our great empire.” He finished his report and bowed slightly at Vader, who nodded and continued eating. 

The dining room was silent except for the sound of silverware scratching against the metal plate and Vader’s chewing. Reginald, on the other hand, stood like a watchful statue beside his master, glancing intermittently at the amount of food and drink left in case he needed to fetch more. Other times, he looked around the massive hall in which Vader dined every day with an expression of mixed admiration and awe. It was a plain and barren room shaped like a cube with no decorations whatsoever. Its dark and uneven walls were layered with rough granite blocks of behemoth size, ancient and sinister like the megalithic altar of some savage and ruined civilization of the past. A long, rectangular dining table sat in the center of the room. It was of fine craftsmanship, its edges and angles were sculpted with a skilled hand instead of automated machines, and it appeared to be of greel wood: sturdy reddish-black planks with a simple yet elegant texture. Only one chair stood around the table, a dark, pointed throne carved from the same stone as its surroundings. No plush pallet or silken cover draped over its surface as a consideration for the sitter’s comfort. Instead, it was probably a less pleasant seat than a fallen piece of rain-beaten log, the same kind that would make one ache everywhere and feel irritated instead of rejuvenated after they sat on it. 

The room had no windows nor skylights; its poor excuse of an entrance didn’t even have a frame or door. It appeared simply as a crevice chiseled out of a block of stone. There was something primitive about the room, perhaps it was the complete absence of the attention to detail, or perhaps it was because it appeared like a cave. It was illuminated by an unknown source of light, for there was no opening to the outside, nor was there lamps and chandeliers. The glow was eerie and ghastly, as no one could identify a plausible source. The design, in totality, was utilitarian to a fault: four walls, a table, and a chair, nothing more. Its designer had it in his mind that one entered this room to eat, and no further accommodation was spared, not even a window for a shred of light nor a second chair for a chance of company.

Vader finished and signaled for Reginald to clean up, which the servant did in remarkable efficiency. He unclipped the holo-communicator from his belt and tossed it onto the table, a blue light beamed in the room as the display activated. Vader went through some news of the day, mostly occupied with the preparations of the upcoming celebrations that were said to be, and I quote, “Most magnificent the galaxy has ever seen, and will ever see. (Until the tenth anniversary, that is)” He scrolled through the entertainment section preoccupied with celebrities, which he deemed utterly stupid, without even looking and he began reading the military news. His holo-com, because of his position as the second most powerful man in the galaxy, has full access to all reports while ordinary citizens would have perhaps a tenth of the information Vader receives. Thus when pedestrians see general summaries and rear-licking praises all day of the might of the Imperial military, Vader could see in-depth strategic reports, the number of casualties and enemy slain, and more so, the movement of every battalion of soldiers and every starship, from ones as insignificant as convoys to the grandest of the Imperial navy’s dreadnoughts and star destroyers. 

He spent some time mindlessly scrolling through the holo-net as he waited for Reginald to bring him dessert. The Coruscant style of cuisine such as the pampered, miniature dishes served on oversized plates and the intolerable sugary cakes upset his stomach, and in that aspect, he could never shrug off his former life and the eating habits he had. He preferred water-rich food that was seen as the rarest delicacies on torrid Tatooine, and that persisted until this very day. It would surprise most that the sith lord ate fruit during meals, as many people probably thought some sorcerous arcane magic kept him alive. His favorite was pears because they were succulent and juicy, but there was also an unexplainable feeling when he first had them that left a deep mark in his memory. It was during a ceremony of some kind in a bureaucrat's private residence by the water. He despised such occasions, but he was tasked by his master to keep a close eye on someone else attending who was suspected to be a rebel-sympathizer. Per his sith training in espionage, he tried to behave normally and avoided stalking around. Thus he sat in an inconspicuous spot and picked up a random fruit, which happened to be a pear, from a massive platter and bit into it, as he happened to be somewhat hungry as well, and then a mysterious vision flashed before his eyes:

It was much like a deja vu moment, but it was very much different. He has never had a pear before in his life but the taste was very familiar. The soft and rich texture of the fruit melted in his mouth as the juice overflowed and dripped onto his robes, and he has never tasted anything as delicious as that in his life. But subconsciously he knew what it tasted like, and he knew the fragrant aroma that emanated from the green fruit. He closed his eyes and savored it in his mouth, but when he opened them again his vision was overwhelmed by a blinding light as if he was in the middle of a stellar explosion. It took him a second to readjust his vision, and he saw himself sitting in a similar villa close to a lake, and the furious glare of light was the dazzling hue of the midday sun reflecting on the water. He quickly realized that it was not the same villa: the architecture was more graceful, antique. Everything appeared smooth and milky, and the sunlight gleamed off every surface brilliantly. It looked so familiar as if he was sitting in his own home, but he has never seen such a place in any setting. He looked down and saw that he held the same pear in his hand, though apparently, no one has bitten into it yet. When he blinked again, the vision disappeared completely and he was once again sitting among a bustling congregation of bureaucrats. He was profoundly confused and somewhat disturbed by the vision, but he was also intrigued by what he saw. As time passed, he began doubting its verity, and it has been a while since the last time he recalled it. He ruminated on the vision again for some time, and he concluded that it was most likely the force, and disturbances in the force could affect those who are sensitive to it. He is no stranger to seeing things, and most things he saw transpired one way or the other. That vision, he thought to himself, transpired when he constructed sections of his own lake retreat in similar architecture, although he did not visit it once after its completion. 

He suddenly snapped out of his thoughts and began scrolling back on the holo-net, feeling as if he missed something important. It was a word that grabbed his attention, and he went past it without a second thought before it struck a chord in his memory. He didn’t have to search for long, it was a minor article listed under the political section titled: “Senator Amidala of Naboo introduced a new controversial bill to the Imperial Senate.” 

“Naboo…” He repeated it to himself, and then he remembered what Reginald said earlier about plasma. “Naboo is the planet that exports most of the plasma in the galaxy…” He clicked on the title and it directed him to the report, which was very concise about a privacy bill the senator introduced some time ago. It as apparently rather insignificant because not even a full page was dedicated to the bill, which argued that certain kinds of government surveillance were not constitutional. Not only was the political commentary gibberish, but there wasn't even a picture to inform Vader about what this senator looked like. But before even meeting her, he has already developed a repulsion toward the unknown woman, who also happened to be...Vader squinted his eyes and read carefully...the former Queen of Naboo and a career politician active throughout the clone wars. 

He knew that his master was also from Naboo, and if he wanted a deal with the Naboo people, he could simply wield Palpatine’s influence. But he quickly remembered that this contract and deal was strictly personal, and he doubted that the emperor would approve of what he was doing. But this senator of Naboo might be of some use to him in pushing a deal through regarding the plasma shipment.  He was lost in thought when Reginald entered the room with a plain silver plate carrying slices of pears fashioned like a decorative flower. Vader switched the holo-net off and began eating, not forgetting to ask his servant about the new lead:

“Have you ever heard of a senator by the name of Padme Amidala?” Vade asked, “Apparently she is the senator of Naboo right now.”

“Would you like me to contact her office, my lord?” 

Vader devoured the last slice on his plate and nodded. Then without any further instructions, he retired to his private establishments.

 

***In the grand lobby of the Imperial Military Academy***

 

“Good morning, cadets! We have been honored today by the visit of Lord Vader and Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. They will be inspecting our progress and dedication to the empire, and the most worthy of you will have the distinguished privilege of serving under their wing. Your whole life has been preparing for this moment, for the glory of service, and for justice!” The speaker announced in a booming voice to the ranks of students below, all sharp and determined, dressed in full uniforms. He waited for the clapping to end and continued: “Now, give your undivided attention to Governor and Grand Moff Tarkin, who will give the opening words to today’s ceremony.” He bowed and shook Tarkin’s hand eagerly, then retreated quickly off stage as Tarkin began his address.

Vader was paying no attention to it. He stood somewhere in the shadows behind the ranks of military officials that also attended the ceremony, lurking like an assassin ready to strike. In fact, he was simply distracted by the unresolved contract hanging over his mind, and in short intervals, he checked to see whether the senatorial office and embassy of Naboo have accepted his request for the senator to meet with him tonight. Nothing has occurred yet, and he felt his irritation grow by the minute at the unresponsiveness and inefficiency of these people. 

Tarkin had concluded his speech, which was met with tremendous applause from the audience, and the ceremony officially started. It was long and dull to see the cadets walk up one by one and receive their certificates or some other documents. Vader scrutinized every single one of them and could feel nothing but disappointment at what he was seeing. These people wouldn't last a week in the Outer Rim, he thought, they are all scrawny and entitled, thinking themselves great warriors when all they knew were simulations. They probably can’t even fire a blaster right in real life, let alone maintain face down fierce convicts and hirelings in lawless places. He was about to voice his opinion to the grand moff standing beside him, but Tarkin was visibly transfixed on something in the crowd of students and seemed disinterested in anything Vader was about to say.

Standing there a bit longer, Vader decided that he must do something before the irritation turns into uncontrollable anger that results in him choking someone on stage. Thus he snuck into Tarkin’s mind from the sheer boredom, and he found a welcome surprise that Tarkin’s formidable mental defenses were mothballed at the moment. He detected many emotions, but they were not what he expected. He thought Tarkin would be just as bored as he was, and the interest was feigned as a gesture of politeness. On the contrary, Tarkin was very excited about something, and he was restraining himself from appearing too enthusiastic. There was a faint trace leading to something that was usually well guarded, a trail to the source of Tarkin’s excitement. Vader was exhilarated by the information, but before he could uncover any promising clues, the grand moff began talking to another officer, and his mindscape changed completely as Tarkin redirected his focus elsewhere. Vader, seeing that his plan was unwittingly thwarted, withdrew from his mind feeling discontent, but knowing at the same time that his earlier suspicions were not unfounded: Tarkin was indeed hiding something.   

After the main ceremony concluded, most of the cadets were dismissed. The people graduating at the top of the class were then introduced to Vader and Tarkin. They numbered around fifty, handpicked by their mentors for their exceptional performance across all categories and demonstrating outstanding abilities and potential. Now, they would go through live tests and trials in front of the Empire’s highest-ranking officials, and those who prevail over their peers will gain access to an astronomical amount of opportunities and future connections with some of the most powerful men in the military. But it was no easy feat: it was a common occurrence for people to be maimed or injured during the trials that involved obstacle courses and hand to hand combat with advanced combat simulation droids and other competitors. Death was uncommon, but every year or two an unfortunate cadet would be ground up into a meat pie or beat into such a pulp that even the bacta tanks could not heal them. Such were casualties, and that merely confirmed what they were told on the first day they entered the Military Academy: every failure, regardless how small, is final; failure does not entail death, failure  _ is _ death. That they will learn, especially under a certain commander who developed a habit of telepathically strangling his failed subordinates. And if that unfortunate situation arises, there is no learning curve nor second chance. After all, one’s neck could only be snapped once. 

Tarkin inspected the line of cadets first, shaking each one of their hands and inquiring about their names. Vader followed closely behind but acknowledged no one explicitly, but he was carefully surveying and regarding each cadet. His keen gaze, concealed behind the shadow of his hood, pierced and penetrated every person his golden eyes fell upon. He could sense the emotions of every person as he walked before them, making careful mental notes on those that felt nervousness or dread: they were unfit to serve. However, he would be more cautious if he stumbled across one who had no stress when coming face to face with the dark lord, but he has yet to find one with that level of grit...until he approached the end of the line and came face to face with an auburn haired girl. She appeared smaller and younger than the rest her classmates, her long hair pulled back tightly and carefully braided into a ponytail that fell over her shoulder, ending at the protruding bump before her chest that stretched the uniform and her many honorary badges. Her eyes were icy blue and dauntlessly cold, the fire burning in her irises quietly defied everyone who returned her gaze, even Darth Vader himself.

“Who is this?” Vader said as he took a step forward and inspected the girl with special interest. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Natasi Daala, sir.” The girl answered in a very feminine and sweet voice that Vader did not anticipate at all. His eyes scanned the girl from head to toe and he suddenly grinned internally, realizing the girl’s clever trick. The timid and adorable voice that the girl spoke it was a sly disguise, using the common perception regarding the weakness of her sex to her advantage. Vader didn’t only see her, he saw through her, and he felt the intense desire she had to be recognized, to be acknowledged, and his intimidating pose and demeanor had no effect at all on the girl’s psychology. She acted as if she was afraid and demure, like a blushing little maiden, but Vader knew that if she was, then she wouldn’t be standing as a cadet in the best Military Academy in the galaxy. He looked at the girl for a moment more and then walked away, concluding his inspection.

The trials and games began promptly begun. A huge audience gathered around the arena and cheered for their fellow classmates who geared up with some thin plating for protection and each equipped a photon blaster. These were a downgraded version of the combat grade ion blaster, but a hit will nonetheless cause an incapacitating amount of pain that paralyzes the body, effectively eliminating the combatant from the game. The arena floor was designed like a maze with many obstacles and different biomes representing the diverse range of environments they will face in future missions. A part of the arena was filled with pipes and jarring masses of metal planks, imitating the urban and industrial environments of Coruscant or Corellia. There were bogs and swamps, hills and dunes, while the very middle was an observational spire with an open platform on the top. A mobile Gatling turret was mounted there, giving the person that reaches the high ground first a massive advantage.

Just as Vader settled in the premier viewing box, ready for some quality entertainment, his transmitter rang. An officer’s wine glass exploded like a grenade simultaneously, spilling its contents all over his chest and face. A few waitresses rushed to the slightly dazed man and began cleaning him up and mopping the floor as Vader left the room with a slight smirk. He picked up and heard Reginald’s voice on the other side:

“My Lord Vader, the Naboo senatorial office has responded. Should I dial them into your mobile holo-projector, or is there an accessible projection room near you?” 

“The mobile one will do,” Vader responded. He opened the door of the adjacent box, where a few officers and their wives were residing. A young, raven-haired man turned and froze at the sight of Vader, and he stuttered to greet him: “Lord Vader! How...how nice of you to join us!” Hearing that name, everyone else in the room snapped their head around in visible horror, uncertain about what to do. 

“Get out,” Vader growled at the young man, who judging by the badges on his uniform, was an admiral. He forced an awkward smile at that request and answered: “But my lord, we had a reservation...Ech...” He was cut short by the desperate wheezes that escaped his throat as he fell on all fours and struggled to breathe. Vader was intent on ending his worthless life right there but his transmitter buzzed and a message from Reginald came through: “My lord, the senatorial office of Naboo is on hold, please dial in when ready.”

The officer collapsed like a boneless mass and twitched on the floor, gasping wildly as his friends half helped, half dragged him out of the room. His wife was sobbing uncontrollably in the corner and Vader turned his attention to her and tightened his grip around her delicate neck. Instead of choking her, he simply threw the whimpering woman out of the room so she could join her pathetic husband and turned on his transmitter.

A plump, bearded old man dressed in lavish robes greeted Vader with a deep bow. He began by introducing himself as the minister of foreign affairs of the embassy of Naboo. He once served in the retinue of Queen Amidala, who is now the senator representing the people of Naboo she once ruled over. He explained that he is speaking on the behalf of the senator because she is away in a special session of the Imperial Senate, and she has authorized him to communicate with Lord Vader. He spoke in a candid and concise manner that Vader approved of, thus he allowed the minister to continue. After some further pleasantries, the minister finally addressed an important topic: Senator Amidala’s meeting with Lord Vader. 

“The senator is very busy, my lord, and I hope our delay in responding does not offend you. Miss Amidala has been diligent in rearranging her whole schedule for the week just to accommodate your request. She has set aside all of this afternoon and the whole day tomorrow for your convenience, Lord Vader, and she could not be more pleased with the opportunity of your audience. She is curious as to why a senator from a fringe planet like Naboo would have the honor of your attention…”

“Strictly business, nothing else.” Vader responded, “You may inform your senator that I will meet with her tonight, in my fortress in the palace district. She will be accompanied by no one else and she will keep all the details of the meeting confidential. I will reiterate this to her during the meeting, but you should do so now, minister.” He mused in a grim voice and spoke slowly, ensuring that the old man knew his hidden meaning, “For her sake, I wouldn’t want someone as important as a senator to get in unnecessary trouble for disclosing sensitive information. Do you understand, minister?”

“Of course, My Lord.” The man bowed again and took careful notes. “A specific time in standard hours, my lord?”

“Be assured, minister, that I will be there before she is. But tell your senator to be careful, for it wouldn’t be wise to keep me waiting.” Vader concluded and watched the slight panic spreading across the minister’s composed visage. However, his decades of service in diplomacy saw him formulating a swift response. He nodded quickly with a stilted smile and said in an even tone, seemingly unmoved:

“The senator will be there as soon as possible, my Lord. Once again, she would like to express her gratitude in your generous…” A beep concluded the transmission as Vader grew tired of the old man’s babbling. He clipped it back to his belt and rejoined Tarkin and other high ranking officials in the premier box. The game was near its end now: out of the fifty cadets, only seven remained standing. Three of them were struggling in close quarter combat in the simulated urban environment, one found a hidden cache and activated a camouflaged bipedal walker, and now he was blasting away the vulnerable combatants left in the open. The crowd cheered fervently each time a combatant was made quick work of by the towering machine’s weaponry. It was a slaughter, like a giant stamping down upon hapless insects. Even Vader was impressed by the proficiency of that combatant, who positioned the walker’s armor sideways ingeniously and ricocheted an incoming missile that would have detonated the whole machine. Outwitting his unfortunate foe, he made another daring maneuver as he threw a plasma grenade through the walker’s hatch that landed deftly beside the foxhole where his opponent was hiding, and just as his opponent emerged to avoid the shockwave, he placed three expert shots with the walker’s photon cannons that flung his unconscious opponent twenty feet into the air as the crowd showered him in deafening applause.

“Now that is promising.” Tarkin leaned over to Vader and commented approvingly, “The manufacturers of our armored assault vehicles should consider adding a decoy bomb that flushes the enemy out of their trenches before opening fire. That is a cunning strategy indeed.”

Vader nodded in agreement and pointed at the large screen: “Wait, that’s the girl. She managed to reach the central observational spire.” He looked at Tarkin in disbelief: “How incompetent are these people? They let the woman have the high ground!”

“Don’t underestimate that girl, Vader.” Tarkin nodded with a vain smirk on his face, “That girl single-handedly defeated twelve combatants with a blaster pistol, nothing else. She is a protegee of the Imperial Academy, and might I say that I believe she will be the victor of the competition.”

“Ha!” Vader snorted and grabbed a binocular to get a closer look, “She’s lost her mind! She is not getting in the turret when its right before her! She is just hunkering down beside a box...That must be the talent you are looking for, Tarkin, hiding inside a supply crate.” 

“Patience, my friend, patience.” Tarkin replied, but Vader could sense his confusion as well as the unexpected move, “I’m sure she has figured out something.”

And she has. The combatant in the walker approached the spire and without hesitation, he blasted the turret into flaming shreds. But he was unaware of the girl who concealed herself among empty crates, and he proceeded to engage with another competitor, who was quickly dispatched by an outburst of cannon shots. And in that instant where he was distracted, the girl grabbed a sticky bomb from one of the supply crates and strapped it to her belt. She found an exposed hook and secured one end of a lasso rope to it, the other hand strapped to her slim waist. Then with the agility of a chimpanzee, she swung herself toward the walker and severed the rope with an army knife in the last second, landing upon the exposed top of the walker with the poise and grace of a feline creature. She attached the bomb, set the timer and jumped off in a fluid motion just as the electromagnetic pulse from the blast disabled the armored walker as it convulsed and malfunctioned, smoke and sparks shooting out of its commander’s hatch as its driver made a miraculous escape seconds prior to the purple flames consumed its entirety. The other combatant landed and scrambled to his feet, still coughing and choking from the inhaled fumes. But before he could react and locate his opponent, his swarthy cheeks smudged with ash and sweat met the soft ground. Smoke drifted up behind him from the red hot nozzle of the petite girl’s blaster pistol, aimed directly at her opponent’s back. The girl seemed to not comprehend what was happening for a second, but when she noticed on the display that all other lights had gone out, she threw the weapon away and raised both of her hands in jubilance as the audience fell silent in astonishment. Then like a sudden discharge, the arena erupted in roaring applause and thunderous praise. A full standing ovation ensued as the girl, whose face bloomed like a flower and crying tears of unfathomable joy and achievement, bowed and curtseyed to the animated crowd cheering for her. 

Tarkin too had stood up and Vader has never seen the man so exuberant in his whole life. He clapped so intensely that when he sat down, his palms were a bright shade of crimson. Vader sat broodingly as usual and shrugged at the development. He wondered whether or not the girl was force sensitive because her intuition, reflexes, and agility far exceed that of an ordinary person. He leaned over to Tarkin, who was boasting to the other officers about how correct he was about the girl’s potential, and reflected: “This girl…”

“Natasi Daala.” Tarkin interrupted, “I told you it was unwise to underestimate her.”

“Well, I did underestimate her. Now I understand why because that girl might be force sensitive.”

That statement struck a nerve in Tarkin as his victorious smile quickly faded into a deep frown. He gazed at Vader with an offended look and declared forcefully: “That is impossible. So you say she would be like a Jedi of the old order? I refuse to believe that, Vader, you have no evidence to support that claim.” He glanced around at the officers, making sure that they were all distracted by something else before he resumed with a suppressed voice: “You, my friend, is all that’s left of their ancient religion. Their fire has gone out, they are all but extinct. That concept of the force is merely an outdated construct of the past, used to fool and intimidate people into believing that the Jedis are invincible, but it has been proven…” Tarkin suddenly flinched as if someone rested a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see who touched him but there was no one there. He scanned around in paranoia before returning to Vader: “Pardon me, where was I?”

“You felt that, did you not?” Vader asked, revealing his gloved hand that was hidden under the folds of his cloak to Tarkin. He flexed it and Tarkin flinched again, this time far more vexed and disturbed than before. Vader continued: “Do not deny the power of the force Tarkin. You are a practical man, and you believe what you see. Do you believe now? Do you see now?”

Tarkin stood up and glared at Vader in silence. The rebuke that came so often from the grand moff was none existent this time as he paced away nonchalantly from the seated dark lord and joined another conversation with two other officers.

 

*Two hours later*

 

“My lord.” A servant disrupted Vader’s meditations with a message, “The award ceremony is over sir, the grand moff would like to inform you that the selection process has begun.”

With some medical procedures and for the more serious cases, a trip to the bacta chamber, the cadets have changed back into their uniforms and sat in a small and dimly lit auditorium. Vader found Tarkin in the corner of the room, who seemed to be inspecting the statistics regarding each combatant’s performance in the trials. He approached the grand moff, who looked up and said:

“Ah, there you are. We may finally begin.” He walked up to the stage of spoke in an amplified voice: “Cadets, your attention please. Your files have been thoroughly reviewed and your performance has been carefully evaluated. We are pleased to see the trials, and we have been pleasantly surprised by a few cadets who show special talents. Your files will now be displayed on the projector, and if the numbers could convince the officials of the Imperial military that no further field training is required, you will be drafted directly into a commanding post. Let us begin.” He turned on the projector and read aloud: “Natasi Daala!”

“Yes, sir.” The auburn haired girl stood up, a shining badge of victory dangling before her chest. Vader scrutinized the girl again and read her profile on the projector. It was apparent that she was a gifted youth and excellent in all regards. The officers began murmuring among themselves, but everyone knew that Tarkin would bid for the girl to serve under his wing. Vader noticed that the grand moff had a special interest in Daala, and it was not difficult to see why: she would be a trustworthy and capable lieutenant to any commander, and with that clever head, she would climb the hierarchy quickly. It would be any commander’s chance to fame if they take her under their wing as a protegee, and Tarkin knows it more clearly than anyone else. 

“Do you have any inclinations toward serving under a specific branch of the military?” Tarkin asked, to which the girl replied in her melodious voice:

“Yes, sir. I would like to serve directly under you.”

The room fell hush at that statement. No one, in the history of the academy, has dared to make such an outrageous request. Tarkin smirked and closed her profile on the holo-projector, his voice filled with triumph: “That’s settled then. You may leave now, Miss Daala.”

Everyone was still recovering from the shock when Tarkin pulled out the second file and announced through the amplifier: “Maximilian Veers!”

“Yes, sir.” It was the combatant that came in second who utilized the bipedal walker to great effect before the vehicle was destroyed by Daala’s daring maneuver. Vader scanned the young man, who was well built with broad shoulders and strong arms. He had a square face and powerful jaws with a pair of shining grey eyes. He appears capable enough, Vader thought as he read through his projected profile, which was just as promising as the girl who defeated him. Tarkin asked about his inclinations, to which he replied that he would like to serve as a ground commander leading from the front.

“Very well, the officials will weigh in on your performance, you may sit.” Tarkin turned to the commanders and admirals sitting behind him and asked: “Anyone?”

There were many quick offers as the officials debated among themselves about who should draft the young man. Tarkin approached Vader and expressed his disappointment that the man was going into ground forces instead of the navy, otherwise, Tarkin would have bid for the man as well, because he believed that this Maximilian Veers demonstrated great aptitude and courage during the game. Vader contemplated and suddenly raised his gloved hand, silencing the debating officials and stood up:

“Cadet Veers, what do you specialize in?” He asked.

“Direct armor assault, Lord Vader. I am developing a theory of spearheading assaults with mobile forces by piercing weak points with superior armor and firepower, then overwhelming the enemy with superior infantry numbers.” He answered fluently and professionally, “I have decided to call this tactic the lightning operation.”

“You will serve under me.” Vader nodded. “I hope you do not disappoint. You may leave now, Sergeant Veers.”

“Thank you, my Lord, that was most gracious of you.” The young man bowed deeply and left the room.

 

***Darth Vader’s fortress, Palace District, Coruscant***

 

“Ah, good afternoon, minister. I have just received a transmission from my master that he will be returning soon. Please inform her highness senator Amidala that she should begin preparing.” Reginald said to the minister, who smiled in appreciation and nodded eagerly in response.

“Much obliged, sir.” He said, ending the transmission.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Dear reader, if you enjoyed, please support the writing. If you have any questions or suggestions, please comment and let me know.


	3. Into the Rancor's den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé prepares herself for the fateful meeting. Vader has some questions and hatches a scheme. Padmé saw something strange and ruminates about the past. Everything is coming together, slowly but surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars and any of its characters. (Unless I wake up tomorrow and become George Lucas)
> 
> Unfortunately, school has resumed. The next update will take longer to arrive, but I am working as hard as I could. I really enjoy writing this and I can assure you that it would live up to that "epic" tag.

***Domus Nabooalla, Senate Apartment Complex, Coruscant***

The steady flow of steamy water enveloped Padmé’s naked body as she sunk into the luxurious warmness of her afternoon bath. The tender moisture that clouded the stained glass panes and mirrors settled upon her forehead and lashes like a thin, translucent veil. She soothed her anxious mind and pushed all worries and worldly troubles out of her consciousness because she knew stressing about it will solve nothing. At that moment, all she wanted was to drift and become lost in the wonderful sensation as waves of bubbles kissed her gently all over, the pleasant heat flushing her pale cheeks into shades of blooming roses. She let out an unwitting sigh, wishing that all the sorrows in her world would disappear and disperse as easily as that puff of air. With light caresses, she eased every fiber of straining muscle from her neck down to her slender thighs. She focused on her calves, which were especially sore after a full day of walking in high heels, which she wore in a grave error of judgment. She coated her hands with an oily, golden extract provided by her handmaidens with a scent that reminded her of rain and pines, and she began massaging her legs vigorously until they relaxed and responded complacently to her touch. As she kept stroking them absentmindedly, she recalled an old ballad she heard long ago as the Princess of Theed. She can never recall it without blushing slightly for how sensual and erotic it was in the beginning, and she reprimanded herself for liking it, deeming it inappropriate for a queen and a senator. But there was more: something about it was just so alluring, so melancholic and beautiful that she couldn’t help herself. It went something like this:

\---

_Her handsome lover, under the cloak of night,_

_When timidly winked the sparkling stars;_

_Would scale the royal towers high,_

_To see his maiden, in attires dark;_

_The gale hid their whispers; the moon lends her light,_

_After those agonizing months apart;_

_She turned and tossed, she moaned and sighed,_

_As his touch grazed her most tender parts;_

_When rosy-fingered dawn beamed bright,_

_He was gone to heroic journeys embark;_

_To duties grave, and treacherous strife,_

_He gave one more kiss ere he departs;_

_That fateful kiss would be his last,_

_Her hero fell, from lance and blast._

_Upon towers tall, the maiden wept,_

_From balconies loft, the maiden lept;_

_Although primal lust carnal pleasures entice,_

_What power could mend a broken heart?_

\---

She even surprised herself when she wiped away a drop of her tear upon her soft cheeks after reciting the ballad. She was never the dramatic kind, but something about this poem moves her and shakes her to her core. It resonated with her although she has never truly loved someone with the strength and passion that she would die from grief as a result of losing them, and she never fancied herself to be so unreasonable. But maybe, she thought to herself, now completely daydreaming, that in another universe she fell in love with a heroic knight, and their forbidden passion blossomed into a beautiful romance. But then the hero, like the one in the poem, fell, and her life would lose its luster, and then she just...dies?

It just didn’t sound right to her. She always hoped that there was a version of the poem with a happy ending where the hero and the princess ran away and raised a family on a peaceful planet, far away from everything, so far away that there’s nothing but their love around them. She knew it was unrealistic, and she knew that real life isn’t the fairy tales her mother used to read to her. But a tiny, hopeful voice whispered in her mind that in all the galaxies in the universe, there had to be one where the ending is happy. She plucked a wet lock of hair from her cheeks and fiddled with it as she looked out onto the setting sun, humming a sad tune that she didn’t know the words to. The mist was settling in the grand bathroom, and the hot water was turning lukewarm, but she didn’t want to get out. Her penthouse was like a refuge from all the pain and suffering out there, and she knew that as a senator, her job was to fight for freedom and justice. But there are moments, moments like this, where she doubted hope, she doubted the future, and she even doubted herself.

A sudden knock on the door startled her from her musings and she subconsciously covered her bare breasts and crossed her legs. She relaxed a bit after hearing her trusted handmaiden Dormé’s voice on the other side calling out to her, and Padmé responded:

“Yes?”

“The minister would like to talk to you, mi’lady. He said it was urgent. Should Sabé and I come in and dress you?”

“Tell the minister that I will be right out. And please bring me my garments too.” Padmé replied and felt a tinge of sadness that she had to leave her soothing bath. She rubbed her shoulders one last time and said to herself: “Come on, Padmé! People look up to you as a symbol of hope, and you must be strong in these dark times. If you let yourself falter, then you are letting hope falter. Let’s go and confront the realities of this cruel world, and let’s make it better!” Her own reassuring words filled her with resolve, and she jumped out of the bath, every inch of her skin complaining about the sudden coolness of the damp air. She wrapped a warm towel around herself and continued the pep-talk: “You were just a little girl twenty years ago, and ten years later you were the queen of a whole planet, and now you are representing a sector of twenty thousand star systems in the Senate. Perhaps in another ten years, maybe five…” She thought to herself wistfully but did not dare to utter the words out loud: “Maybe the galaxy would be free from the clutches of this evil regime, and maybe democracy and the Republic will return.” She took a few deep breaths and nodded to herself, feeling much more confident: “Now let’s go face this dark lord, this dreaded Darth Vader. For the Old Republic and democracy, let’s win the first victory for our rebellion.”

 

***Domus Nabooalla, Reception of the Master Bedroom***

 

Padmé made sure her dressing gown was fixed correctly so the lowest region of the v-neck showed only her collarbones and no more before she allowed the Naboo minister enter. The old man bowed deeply and began reading off a report:

“My lady, I believe I informed you earlier about the confidential nature of this meeting, and now I have just received a transmission from Lord Vader’s servant that his master was on his way home. He believed, and I concur, that it would be prudent to begin preparing for the meeting. I have already prepared your private transport, whenever you are ready, we may leave.”

“Thank you, Governor Bibble,” Padmé said to her trusted friend and confidant. Since the Invasion of Naboo, Sio Bibble has accompanied her during times of peril or peace, always loyal to his queen and never once deserting her side. “I will be ready in half an hour.”

“It’s Minister Bibble now, your majesty.” The older man smiled, his serene features and white, flowing beard made him look every bit like the grandfatherly gentleman he is.

“Well,” Padmé smiled as well and retorted playfully, “It’s not ‘your majesty’ anymore, remember? You might need a little refresher, governor.”

The old man chuckled merrily and nodded at Padmé, who joined in his heartfelt laughter. Sio Bibble made a conceding gesture before ruminating with a lingering smile upon his benign features: “You will always be Queen Amidala to me, my lady. I could not express the depth of my disappointment when you turned down the offer to be the Queen of Naboo for life! Naboo thrived under your rule, and I knew ever since I saw you first as a little girl that you were destined to be the one to restore the monarchy to its former glory…” Before his thoughts could drift further into the “good old days”, Padmé interrupted him:

“Wow, wow! Slow down there, governor!” Padmé grinned from ear to ear. She knew the aristocratic and royalist tendencies of her minister, and he has always been the most conservative member of the Naboo royal council. At first, she was alarmed by the things Sio Bibble said from time to time about restoring the monarchy and reinstating the aristocracy, but now she just found it endearing. Sometimes she wondered whether the old man was even serious about half the things he said or whether it was simply used to tease her, but she knew that she should take his words with a grain of salt. She also knew that Bibble is immensely loyal to her, and his regard for her was substantial. He probably wouldn’t be advocating for a monarchy unless the monarch in question is Padmé, and that thought always stroked her ego dangerously. She reminded herself that an elected official’s role was to serve the people and keeping a careful term limit and restraint on their power is the wisest way to ensure that they could serve to their highest and noblest capacities. Some more jokes and jests flew between the two old friends before the minister’s face suddenly sunk into a sullen frown. He quickly regained his kind and tranquil expression, but that subtle detail didn’t escape Padmé’s keen eyes.

“What’s wrong, governor?” She asked, feeling concerned. Sio Bibble pretended to be surprised and responded: “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“Be honest with me now, Governor Bibble.” Padmé stood up and approached the older man, whose hands anxiously rubbed against the sides of his robes. He looked down, refusing to meet Padmé’s eye, and turned away slightly. He said hastily in a strained and hushed voice: “I should be leaving now, my lady, I will leave you to change and prepare.”

“Wait,” Padmé said and held onto the long, velvet sleeves of her minister, determined to get to the bottom of what was happening. “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

The old man halted in his course and stood there in reticence. As Padmé’s concern mounted, she let go of the man’s sleeve and decided that she better not interfere. To her surprise, he did not move an inch. He just stood there between her and the door, quiet and inert. She moved closer to him and rested a willowy hand upon his firm shoulders as a gesture of reassurance, and suddenly she realized that the man was shaking, and she gasped at the realization as a small sobbing sound unwittingly escaped the minister’s mouth. He slowly turned around, and tears began welling in Padmé’s eyes as she perceived the dismay carved into every wrinkle of the Sio Bibble’s face. His lips were trembling and his teeth were locked firmly so the intensity of his emotions wouldn’t betray him, but they already did. Two silent and woeful streams flowed down from his cerulean eyes, which were always clear and unflinchingly confident, but now they were clouded by a grief so profound and absolute that Padmé felt a sharp pain when she gazed into them. She depleted all her resourcefulness trying to comfort him, and her fragile emotions were reaching its boiling point as well. She felt the warm and moist tingling on her cheeks as her tears began to fall as well, she whispered, trying to entreat and sooth:

“Minister…” She called out softly in a shaking voice, “Oh, my dear friend, you are making me cry...Please tell me what’s on your mind...What’s wrong?” Her fingers limply clasped the folds of the older man’s cloak as she implored desperately. The minister tensed and exhaled unsteadily, and his tears never stopped flowing. Then in a sudden move that astonished Padmé and frightened her, he lunged at her and his strong hands gripped her lithe shoulders. Then he sunk and knelt before her, his hands holding onto the tear-strained fine silk of Padmé’s gown as if it was the last thin thread his life depended on. He was now speaking with urgency and anguish that showed the depth of his true distress, each word and syllable he uttered felt like a brutal spike stabbing into Padmé’s maiden breasts. She wanted to speak and encourage, she wanted to be strong, but at that moment she could do nothing but weep and listen.

“My lady! My lady! You cannot go! You cannot throw your precious life away like this! He must know, he must have suspected, this is entering the den of a rancor, please, I beg you! I beg you!” He looked up and earnestly burnt brighter in his eyes than the twin suns of Tatooine during midday, and Padmé was stunned and speechless, “You must leave this place right now and go somewhere safe, maybe Naboo, maybe somewhere even farther in the outer rim. You and your handmaidens, I have already contacted a captain willing to smuggle you out of this dangerous and dreadful place. I will stay...I will! I am old now, and I have served out my usefulness, and I will suffer the consequences at those bastards’ hands. But you, my lady, the people of Naboo needs you, the people of the galaxy needs you! Go! I beg you! Go!”

Padmé knelt down too and steadily stroked the arms of the minister, too shocked and moved herself to formulate an adequate response. She gently assisted the shaken man unto his feet and sat him down on the chair she pulled away from her vanity table. She dropped down once more onto her knees, ensuring that their eyes were level, and said: “I understand your concern for me, and I thank you, my dear friend, for looking after me since I was a little girl. I know I’m in danger, but aren’t we all under this totalitarian autocracy? I know my life might be in jeopardy, but so is the life of trillions of others in the galaxy if freedom is not restored. I do not know what will happen to me, and I don’t even know whether or not I will return tonight…”

The man’s bloodshot eyes looked up abruptly and he tried to stand up and exclaim something, but Padmé stopped him with her hands pressing firmly down on his shoulders. She waited for him to regain some composure and continued softly, like a mother speaking to a child troubled by nightmares: “But I know this, minister: if I don’t go, then you, and Dormé, and Sabé, and every member of the Naboo embassy and senatorial office is doomed. Remember what you said about me always being Queen Amidala in your eyes? A queen’s duty is to protect her people. I am merely doing what is demanded of me.”

“But my lady…”

“No.” Padmé said resolutely, standing up and wiping away the remnants of her sorrow from her face. “Prepare my shuttle, minister, your queen commands it.”

 

***Domus Nabooalla, Master Bedroom***

 

“Are you alright, my lady?” Dormé asked with a hint of concern as she began braiding Padmé’s hair, “You seem really downcast today.”

“It’s nothing,” Padmé replied. She began drawing her eyeliner carefully. After much deliberation, she settled on a faint shade that wouldn’t be very noticeable. After all, she doubted that her beauty could save her if the meeting goes horribly wrong. She has heard many things about this Darth Vader. People thought of him as the Emperor’s mad hound on a long leash that ravenously hunted dissenters. There were rumors that he had no face, there were whispers that he could read minds and flay one’s consciousness until they effectively become a plant. She even heard some outlandish claims that he was a cannibal and ate the flesh of his fallen enemies to increase his sorcerous powers. She didn’t know what to believe, but she knew that this was a heartless and cruel man who was not to be trifled with. She glanced in the mirror and suddenly flinched: “Dormé! Stop!”

“I’m sorry, my lady?” Her handmaiden said in confusion. She rarely displeased her mistress in her many years of service and she stood there uncertain about what she has done wrong, “What would you like me to do?”

“The braids are too intricate. It wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion. Fetch me that conical metal headpiece, the one done with a gold finish.” She said and leaned back into her chair. She rubbed her aching forehead with her palm and tried to calm herself down. She shouldn’t allow the fear to distract her and faze her. She must remain composed and level-headed, especially when she meets the dark lord face to face. Even a tiny mistake could be fatal, and worst of all, she had no time to prepare for an eloquent speech, like those she delivered on the Senate floor. She tried to rehearse the situation in her head, but she knew that it would be no good. Improvisation and cunning deception are her unlikely companions in this dire hour.

Dormé returned with the headpiece and began undoing the braids skillfully. Padmé glanced into the mirror and saw her handmaiden’s dejected expression, and her heart was suddenly overburdened by guilt and self-loathing: she let out her negative emotions and stress on a clueless handmaiden who was only trying to please her mistress. She suddenly turned and said: “Come here, Dormé.”

“Yes. mi’lady, what is it?” She stopped and asked. Padmé stood up and enveloped her handmaiden in a tight and sisterly embrace. Dormé froze stone-solid like a statue and said in a whimper: “Uh, mistress? What…”

“Shhh.” Padmé shushed her and enjoyed a moment more of intimacy with her handmaiden. When she pulled away, she could see the tears sparkling in Dormé’s watery eyes, and she said while caressing the other girl’s soft face: “I’m sorry for yelling at you, Dormé. I shouldn’t do that, and please don’t take it to heart. You know my duties are stressful, but that’s no excuse for raising my voice to you, my dear. Can you please forgive me?”

Dormé silently nodded, holding back her tears. She continued tending to and dressing up Padmé, who was fully prepared in around fifteen minutes. She chose a long dress of deep purple decorated in an intricate swirling pattern while lines of shining jewels cascaded down its front like a river of crystal. The neckline was cut low, partly revealing her shapely breasts in a suggestive gesture meant to entice. She didn’t know whether or not it would work, but this Darth Vader is a man, and her sister Sola once said: “No matter a man’s deposition, hormones are hormones, they work outside our control.” A hidden corset traced her slim waist and well-endowed hips, amplifying her feminine grace and allure. The tight bodice was weaved from fine silk and linen, allowing her ivory skin to shine through the embroidery like pure moonlight through dark clouds. A heavier overcoat of an ebony hue hung loosely over her shoulders, keeping her farther from the chill of the twilight hour. Her brown curls were pulled back and secured in the golden headpiece, elegant but not pompous, solemn but not grave. The crown jewel of the whole courtly outfit was the thin golden choker around her neck and the large, shining ruby of deep vermilion embedded within it. It was a generous gift from a friend of hers, and she felt it fitting for today for some odd reason. As she looked in the mirror, the sudden dark realization struck her that if this gown was all black and had a slightly higher neckline, it would be perfect for a funeral. She only prayed that that was not the case and only her grim pessimism speaking.

“You look so lovely, mi’lady.” Dormé put her hand on Padmé’s shoulders and turned her around to inspect the dress from all angles. Seeing the low cut neckline, Dormé began giggling girlishly and asked: “Which lucky man is going to see this?”

Padmé forced a smile at the statement. Dormé has no idea why her mistress was getting dressed fancily and putting on scents and perfumes and powders and creams. She probably thought that it was a ball or gala that her mistress was attending. And Padmé being a socialite, a beauty, and a politician at once, was trying to bewitch her audience. How little does Dormé know the danger that her mistress was in: being a prominent member of the secret resistance and a staunch advocate of freedom in this age was as suicidal as covering herself in chum and jumping into the carnivore filled flooded caverns of Naboo. She tenderly held Dormé’s hand and looked intently into the other woman’s eyes, speaking softly: “Thank you, Dormé, for everything.”

Her handmaiden was taken aback by that statement. She retracted her hand awkwardly and blushed: “You are too good to me, mi’lady.”

“Oh? Am I now?” Padmé smiled. Seeing that she was making her handmaiden timid, she cupped Dormé’s sweet and pretty cheeks and made the girl look into her eyes: “Dormé, you bring me breakfast every morning at six thirty, and you never retire to your chambers until after I go to sleep, which is normally beyond midnight. You tend to me, dress me, bath me, what would I do without you? And I’m too good to you? I think you are too good to me.”

“It’s just...It’s just my duties, mistress.” Dormé struggled slightly and pushed Padmé’s hands away, feeling somewhat uneasy at her mistress’s sudden affections. Little does she know that her mistress might not return tonight from the fateful meeting; little does she know of the mingled hope and despair that burnt in her mistress’s heart. Padmé grinned and said:

“If caring for me is a part of your duties, then being good to you is a part of mine.” She tried to give a reassuring nod to her handmaiden, but she felt her emotions swell again in her heart, and she fought to control her tears. She hugged her handmaiden once more and whispered: “Goodbye, Dormé.”

 

***Domus Nabooalla, Veranda***

 

Padmé walked out to the open veranda and was surprised that there was only Sio Bibble and her two handmaidens, Sabé and Dormé, standing there waiting for her departure. She approached the elderly minister and asked quietly:

“Where is everyone else? I thought there would be more people.”

The minister shook his head gloomily and replied: “Nobody knows about this because of its confidentiality. Vader put a gag rule on us, and I couldn’t inform anybody in the embassy and senatorial office about this. It’s truly a shame, my lady, I am so sorry.”

Padmé tried to shrug it off, but she found it difficult to concentrate, or stay calm, even. She looked down the steps and saw her shuttle waiting. Upon its windows reflected the last dying vestige of twilight that gleamed joylessly over the metropolis while darkness beckoned from the horizon blurred by smog and industrial pollution. She sighed as she felt a light breeze sweep through the apartment. It stirred the water in the fountain and traveled through her handmaiden’s thin, satin gowns; It tossed Sabé’s curly hair over her face, then finally, it rested a cold, ethereal kiss on her forehead. Was it a kiss to bestow life or take it? Her troubled mind asked the roaming wind, but she received no answer other than its cruel snicker resounding across the empty halls. As she stood there, contemplating, the gale intensified wickedly in full blast, and she wondered whether the forces of nature were also conspiring against her, hell-bent on breaking her will and snuffing out her flame. But she stood there against the wind, adamantly and defiantly glaring into the evening as darkness drew its mighty screen over the sky and concealed the heavenly lights. But no screen was impenetrable, she thought, and the hopeful light of a thousand infallible stars still sparkle across the cloak of midnight like beacons and lanterns for travelers in the darkness, guiding them to ultimate triumph and noble deeds.

Then she began coughing from the cold, which prompted the minister to take her arm and began escorting her to the shuttle. She stopped to hug both of her handmaidens once more and then stepped onto her transport. Before she could close the door, the minister grabbed her hand and looked ardently into her eyes. His eyes were bright with hope for a second, then overtaken by the shadow of despair the next as he repeated again and again: “Please be safe, my lady, please...Promise me that you will come back.”

“I promise, governor.” She grinned and kissed the coarse skin of her dear friend’s hand before letting go and shutting the door. As the engines hummed and the shuttle moved farther and farther away from her apartment, she began softly crying once more.

 

***Domus Nabooalla, Communications chamber***

 

“Alright R2, let’s try channel 6.” Sio Bibble stroked his beard as the astromech droid began beeping and the screen filled up with static. Then a loud pop occurred, and the screen turned black. The elderly minister shook his head and flipped a few switches, then turned to R2 again: “That’s no good, channel four then.”

Another static-filled screen but no “pop” this time. The minister nodded optimistically and began slowly turning a dial until the screen faded into a gradient grey background, but the static hissing remained. He commanded: “R2, jam 4.”

Nothing happened.

“Ok…” The minister pulled out the manual and flipped through a few pages. He winced and then flipped off another switch, which turned the screen to blue, and then he said to the droid beside him: “R2, jam 4.1.”

The hissing was reduced significantly, but the screen was still blue. The minister groaned and bent down with some difficulty. He took a screwdriver and opened a small compartment under the transmitter, and then he pressed some buttons until they all lit up.

Nothing happened.

“Damn it!” Sio Bibble uttered beneath his breath. He stood up and grimace: “My back! I’m too old for all this technology stuff. R2, jam 4.2.”

A deafening screech filled the room as the screen began flashing, Sio cried out loud: “No! Too much! 4.15, R2! Jam 4.15.”

The screeching stopped, and the screen turned back to blue. The static hissing was almost nonexistent, but still, there was a faint ambient humming. Sio Bibble rubbed his hands and said: “That’s promising. R2, jam 4.16.”

The screen turned to green, and it sounded like something clicked into place. Sio collapsed back into his chair and exhaled: “Finally. R2, dial Senator Organa.”

“Minister Bibble, how are you?” Bail Organa appeared on the screen. He looked energetic and youthful, with his customary Alderaanian royal robes and a well-trimmed goatee. His swarthy cheeks were glowing with life as he smiled frankly at the elderly minister. “How is Senator Amidala, did she leave already?”

“Yes, Senator Organa,” Bibble replied. He looked exhausted both physically and emotionally as he greeted the Alderaanian senator, “I am very worried for her safety. Do any of your informants have promising leads on the reason Darth Vader summoned her majesty to his private establishment?”

“Unfortunately none.” Bail Organa shook his head, evidently disappointed, “They said the dark lord has been very quiet in recent days. Some have whispered that his flagship was sighted in the outer rim a few days ago. I heard that he attended a ceremony earlier today in the Imperial Academy, and that is the extent of my knowledge. He is very elusive with his whereabouts and motives. Have you heard anything from him?”

“I tried to tactfully inquire about his reasons for summoning the senator for an audience, to which he said, “It’s strictly business.” I only pray, Senator Organa, that this has nothing to do with the resistance movement…” Sio Bibble said, “If it is, then I am afraid that my lady’s life is in grave danger. And it would be beyond our powers to save her.”

Bail Organa nodded silently in agreement. The fledgling resistance has encountered many hardship and setbacks in less than one year of its existence. Some senators loyal to their cause were poisoned and assassinated, some died in unfortunate “accidents” during their commutes. It became worse and worse in the past months as Darth Vader personally led campaigns to “disloyal” planets and slaughtered thousands at his whims. Somehow, he seemed to be able to sniff out members of the resistance with pinpoint accuracy and hunt them down mercilessly. Bail has always suspected infiltration and espionage, and his worst fears were confirmed when his dear friend Mon Mothma mysteriously disappeared for two months. Only a week ago was Bail able to reach her, but she was put under house arrest, and all her communication channels were monitored. Now Senator Amidala, a vital member of the movement, was being summoned to Darth Vader’s fortress for a private audience. “It seems like the Emperor and his hound Vader is conducting a complete crackdown before the fifth anniversary. I have been noticing the dramatic increase of security measures around Imperial square and palace district.” Bail Organa scoffed and said contemptuously, “Do they think of us as a terrorist organization that would undermine Imperial authority by bombing and killing civilians? We are not the Mandalorian Liberation Front or anything as radical as that. We will fight for our freedoms, but we will not do so with violence and terror.”

“You have heard of that too? The bombing on Mandalore?” Sio Bibble asked.

“Horrible! Such abominable acts.” Bail Organa condemned harshly, “I understand their desire for freedom, but they have become the very enemy they vowed to destroy when they turned their weaponry on innocent women and children. I have reached out to Duchess Satine for my condolences, and I only pray that her noble ideals can hold together her fractured people.”

“The galaxy is going insane! It is just…” The old minister exclaimed in frustration. He sunk back into his chair once more and buried his face in his hands: “So much evil...So much evil, how could this be? Just ten years ago we had a democracy and now…” He looked up in a crestfallen manner at Bail Organa, who sunk into a pensive state, frowning deeply as well. “I cannot believe it, Senator Organa, I cannot believe it! My lady Miss Amidala is one of the most kind, caring and good people I have ever known, and now even she is in danger!” He struggled to restrain the anguish and anger as he stood up abruptly and began pacing in the tiny communication chamber: “We have to do something! We can’t let her just go to that monster’s castle! We can’t let this happen! I beg you, Senator Organa, do something!”

“I’m deeply sorry, minister.” Bail Organa said, his raven eyes glancing away from the elderly minister’s distress, afraid that he too would be affected by the tumultuous emotions and fall prey to irrationality. “There is nothing we could do...There is nothing we could do…” He contemplated for a second and said: “I will contact Senator Amidala on her shuttle and speak to her briefly and give her some reassurance that we are all behind her and behind our cause. But beyond that, I’m afraid our powers are inadequate.”

“Please do all you can, Senator, to save my lady’s life.” Bibble implored, to which Bail Organa nodded and gave his promises. But in such a dark time, what do promises count for? Friends could betray friends, sisters could betray brothers, husbands could betray wives, and sons could betray fathers. It was truly the worst of days the galaxy has ever seen. As Bail ended the transmission, he sat down, thinking of his beautiful home of Alderaan, its mighty mountains, glaciers, and alpine lakes; he thought of his beloved wife. Those were the thoughts that filled him with hope and determination, for he must fight so the pure and good things in the galaxy may thrive. Those were also the thoughts that filled him with despair, for the machine of tyranny has no eyes nor heart, and all that he holds dear could be vaporized in an instant. After a quiet moment, he reached for his transmitter to call Senator Amidala, and he realized that his hands were trembling as well.

 

***Senator’s Shuttle***

 

Padmé sat stiffly and watched the evening broadcast of the INN (Imperial News Network). There was a bombing earlier in Mandalore in front of the Duchess’s palace that killed hundreds of innocent civilians. Imperial authorities were investigating it, and as of now, two suspects have been apprehended, and they both have connections to the radical organization called the Mandalorian Liberation Front. Padmé clutched her chest as she felt short of breaths, horrified at the atrocity. A tinge of warmth and reassurance crept into her heart as she watched her friend of many years, Duchess Satine Kryze, address the people of Mandalore about the bombing, and Padmé was glad to see that the Duchess was unharmed. Neither Emperor Palpatine nor the Grand Vizier Mas Amedda has given an official statement of condolences, but many prominent senators, such as Bail Organa, had already spoken out against the terror attack and stressed about unity in Imperial territories.

As the death toll continued to climb by every update, she decided to turn off the holo-screen. Her nerves were already upset, and there was no need to put any further burden on them. She gazed out of the shuttle’s window at the Senate building to her right, wondering to herself whether or not she would be able to return there tomorrow morning. She felt her whole world crumble down when the news reached her last night that she was summoned by Darth Vader to his castle for a private audience. There was an illusion that they were safe after Mon Mothma’s release from the Empire’s clutches, there were bottles and glasses raised, believing that the resistance will survive and continue fighting. Not even a week has transpired before another leader of the resistance is facing her imminent doom. She tried to comfort herself in the thought that there is no evidence of her ties to any questionable organizations, and she enjoyed immense popularity among the general public. The outcry was substantial after Mon Mothma’s arrest and subsequent disappearance. If Padmé, who was dubbed “The Senator of the people” on the holo-net, were arrested for no apparent reason, there probably would be protests or riots on the streets.

“They have nothing.” Padmé murmured to herself, “They cannot accuse you of anything if they don’t have anything…Maybe we are thinking too much into it, and maybe he is just extending an invitation to me for a gala, or something…” She wished wholeheartedly for that to be the reason of her summon, but she found it deeply unconvincing. To her knowledge, people went to the Imperial Palace if they were invited to a social occasion. An invitation to Vader’s palace was equal to a decree of execution. She has seen that building many times, and she always has wondered about what kind of a man would inhabit such a forlorn place. It was like an obelisk of pure darkness and evil, even the rays of sunlight that passed by it were warped and tainted by the ill aura surrounding the place as to how light would be distorted by the event horizon of a black hole. She always told her pilot to fly away from the building every time she passed it because of how much she disliked its aesthetics, or the lack of thereof, and how hideous it looked compared to the other more elegant skyscrapers and spires. How ironic, she thought to herself: she has been avoiding that building for all her life, and now she has no choice but to go there, and with the possibility that she would die there…

She tried not to be so grim. She will probably survive, she thought, and she will most likely be interrogated by the dark lord about the identities of the members of the resistance and whether or not they have strongholds or weapon caches on any planets. She will deny all accusations and maintain that she has always supported Emperor Palpatine and the Empire, she is a member of the loyalist committee, and she has great popularity among the people. As long as she says nothing and as long as no evidence could be presented, she must be acquitted of all charges in accordance with the constitution. She knew that the law was a simple placeholder at this point, but they cannot execute her without reason if they do not wish to face the possibility of mass civil unrest right before the week of celebrations.

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps Palpatine would help her. As ridiculous as that sounded, Padmé knew that a portion of Palpatine’s popularity came from her because they were both from Naboo, and Palpatine served as the senator representing Naboo at some point, just like her. Hence a lot of people connected them in many aspects as eloquent and benevolent politicians from a peaceful and pastoral mid-rim planet. As much as she hated those comparisons, because she knew the true ambitions and lust for power that Palpatine possesses, she hoped that Palpatine would not allow his mad dog Vader to kill her. It would be the same as taking an ion pistol and blasting his foot, it would destroy Palpatine’s public image if he let “the senator of the people” be heartlessly murdered.

She kept going back and forth between unjustified optimism and unjustified pessimism until her transmitter rang. She was relieved to see the face of her friend Bail Organa appear over the holo-projector. “How are you, Senator Organa?” She greeted.

“I am fine, Senator Amidala, how are you?” Bail replied. Padmé could hear the sadness and concern in his voice, and she felt obliged to act upbeat and confident. It was already enough stress on her shoulders and she understood how difficult it felt, but she wouldn’t allow all her friends and companions to be weighed down by the same heaviness. She replied:

“Well, I am doing as well as the situation allows, shall I say?” She said with a wink and a small laugh. Seeing her playful response, Bail Organa chuckled as well and responded:

“I am glad that you are feeling confident, I am sure you will be fine, Senator Amidala.” He gave her a reassuring smile and continued, his tone now turning serious: “But before you meet Darth Vader, there are a few things you ought to remember. Unfortunately, we had no time to prepare because of how sudden this was, but I have worked diligently with my informants and they have summarized some behavioral habits of the dark lord.” He pulled up a list from offscreen and began reading:

“First, Darth Vader has the ability to read thoughts. This is the most dangerous of his powers, but it is not fatal if you could avoid a few things. Do not make eye contact, close your eyes and do not look at him if he is gazing at you. Do not try to hide your thoughts or bury them, that will expose them more. If he is looking away, identify and look at a random object in the room and focus all your thoughts on that object, and that should confuse him. Second, I have heard that Darth Vader is not very talkative. Hence unless talked to directly, do not say anything. Let him lead the meeting, only answer his questions to the bare minimum, and be extremely concise and clever with the wording. Third, Darth Vader can telepathically strangle people, which he utilizes as his preferred method of execution...” Padmé shuddered and involuntarily brought her hands up to her neck. She was wearing a choker, Padmé thought. She hoped sincerely that her accessory will be the only thing “choking” her tonight. She pushed that thought out of her mind and listened to Bail, who was at the end of his list: “And lastly, Darth Vader is extremely volatile, sadistic, and evil in every sense of the word. Do not provoke him, do not talk back to him, do not argue with him. All it takes is an instant of irrationality from him for one to lose their life. So be very, very careful, Senator Amidala, I pray for your safety, my friend.”

“Thank you, Senator Organa.” Padmé nodded and said, taking those suggestions to heart. She talked with Bail about Mon Mothma and Sio Bibble for a few moments more until the droid pilot notified her that she was approaching the fortress.

“Good luck, Padmé.” Bail Organa said with a solemn expression. Padmé was somewhat surprised that Bail called her by her first name rather than her formal title. She replied:

“Thank you...Senator,” She paused and said instead: “Thank you, Bail. I will see you tomorrow at the office?”

“That would be great, my lady.” Bail Organa gave her one last encouraging nod before ending the transmission.

 

***Darth Vader’s Fortress, Palace Sector, Coruscant***

 

When Padmé felt her shuttle slowly touchdown on the landing pad, the maroon dusk has already faded into evening, and she couldn’t see very well through the small paneled windows of her private transport. She put on her overcoat and was ready to leave the shuttle, but the droid driver stopped her: “Please stay where you are. The shuttle will be automatically transported into the castle’s interior.”

Her hand froze on the door handle, and she slowly pulled it back. Her ship suddenly jerked and began moving forward slowly, accompanied by the mechanical sound of conveyor belts rolling beneath her. The complete absence of light hindered her from studying the details of the interior of the castle, and she could only see a few faint flickering bulbs here and there. The walls were constructed with a jet black material. She couldn’t distinguish whether it was metal or stone, but she was aware that the unnatural darkness of the halls was a result of the material’s light absorbing properties. Then the ship stopped, and she could finally see what room she was in: it was a large, cylindrical chamber that had bands of faint, signal light around its perimeter. She could see the exposed machinery and pressure pumps beside an unmanned control panel, and she realized that it was a large cargo lift for ships.

Then her shuttle began descending slowly, and darkness shrouded her vision once more. Her mental timer informed her that it took around two minutes for her to arrive at the docking bay. Hence she deduced that it was most likely underground. It was just as dimly lit as everywhere else, but she could make out the unmistakable silhouette of a few other ships: they were TIE fighters. She knew that the Fortress had to have a security force of some sort, but she has yet to see a single living person anywhere.

The docking bay was not the end of her journey. The shuttle began moving again along another conveyor system, this time somewhat bumpier and with a slope. She attempted to form a mental map of the place, but she was completely lost in the maze of conveyors, lifts and unexpected turns. The difficulty was exacerbated by the fact that she couldn’t see anything clearly. She sunk back into her seats and took a few deep breaths, growing more concerned as her shuttle was transported onto another turbolift, this time going up and at a much faster speed. She was glad to see the light again as her shuttle reached the top, and her assistant droid informed her that she may disembark.

She stepped off her ship and was greeted by a massive hall with very a tall ceiling. The architectural motif remained consistent throughout the whole castle, which was a lack of architectural motif altogether. There was no furniture, no place to sit or hang her coat, no statues or columns or fountains, not even any windows. The room was illuminated by a faint light coming from somewhere in the walls, but she could not identify a crevice or alcove that held a single lamp. She looked back and saw that her ship was sitting on a rectangular platform with a metallic texture, and she was finally able to identify what the walls and floor were made of: stone. She was surprised by that choice of material, and she found it oddly fitting for a man like Darth Vader. Cold and heartless, rough and jagged, and darker and blacker than a lump of coal. She looked around and identified a single rectangular arch at the end of the hall, which seemed to be the only plausible direction to proceed.

The platform behind her suddenly sunk below the floor, taking her ship with it. Before she could do anything, her shuttle and the lift both disappeared into the abyss below, leaving her stranded in the dark room.

“Great!” She murmured to herself and began walking.

 

***Darth Vader’s Fortress, Throne Room***

 

“My lord, Senator Amidala has arrived.” Reginald said, kneeling before the dark lord sitting upon his formidable throne.

“Tell her to wait in the sitting room. I have some other business to tend to right now.” Vader ordered. After Reginald shuffled away hastily, Vader switched on his holo-communicator.

“Count Dooku.” He greeted, “I take it that you have met the Emperor already, and it seems like your head is still intact. Your concerns from earlier were hardly warranted then, I would say.”

Dooku smirked and replied: “I have indeed, Lord Vader, and…” He turned gestured with his hands. From the sound of it, it seemed like he telepathically closed all blinds and doors of his chamber, then he inquired secretively: “Is this a secure channel?”

“It’s my private channel, which would make it the most secure channel in the whole galaxy.”

“Good.” Dooku stood up and begun, “The whole situation is more complex than I have previously imagined.”

“This again, Count?” Vader sat back into the throne and rolled his eyes. He was quite fed up with Dooku’s mysterious euphemisms and riddles. Unfortunately, that was how the Count preferred to convey his information. “My apologies, Count, but I do not know at all what situation you are referring to.”

“It will be revealed, my friend, in time we will all see.” Dooku said while stroking his beard, his eyes shining in an enigmatic light once more. When he removed his cloak, Vader noticed the sudden change of his outfit. Instead of the usual robes and tunic that he preferred, alluding back to his former days as a Jedi master, Dooku wore a short, double-breasted overcoat with shining golden buttons. Two decorative silver shoulder plates with mysterious runes replaced his usual cloak and chain. Interesting, Vader thought, it looked quite aristocratic. He wondered whether or not Dooku dressed up formally for the audience with the emperor.

“Interesting choice of attire, I must say.” Vader commented, and Dooku responded with a faint smile. Vader took some mental notes of the attire and decided that he would like to investigate further. It was a trivial matter, and as refined of a man as Dooku was, he surely had a finer taste than Vader regarding what conformed to courtly etiquette. But intuitively, Vader knew that there must be more to what met the eye. What especially intrigued him were the silver shoulder plates. He was certain that they were out of fashion, heavy and redundant, so why would the Count wear them? He knew that if he asked directly, Dooku would counter with a vague answer that discloses nothing. Thus he reminded himself to look deeper into it later. He changed to the more important topic: “And your meeting with the emperor. Did he provide the rationale for summoning you here?”

“He did, my friend, but I am afraid I cannot say.” Dooku replied. “You may ask the Emperor yourself, and I do wonder what he will tell you.”

Vader sunk into an uneasy silence, his mind weighing the Count’s statement as blatant insolence in thin disguise. He hated when people hide things from him, and he hated it more when people deceive him. There is nothing more despicable in the world than fraud and treachery, and Vader knew very well that his master, Darth Sidious, was an embodiment of both. But did he believe that he could usurp his master’s place? He would be foolish to think himself strong enough for such a confrontation. He could sense many things in the force, but his master’s presence in the force was always surrounded with a nebulous and sinister mist, making it impossible for Vader to measure Sidious’s true power, but he has seen it first hand and knew that it was not to be underestimated. He needed his master’s teachings to become stronger in the dark side, and when the opportunity does come, he will gladly take it and ascend to his rightful place.

He also felt a slight sense of betrayal and a profound fire of rage that he was oblivious to what his master was doing. He was well aware that the emperor maintained a cautious attitude toward teaching Vader his vast array of knowledge, for he could not allow his apprentice to become so strong that he would feel inclined to overthrow his master. Was Dooku a tool in Sidious’s rituals and experiments to enhance the emperor's already formidable power? Vader scrutinized the older man and ruminated about the few conversations they have had. Dooku spoke of manipulations, Vader did not doubt that the Count was referring to Palpatine; Dooku spoke of a disturbance in the force, and Vader could connect that to the odd vision he had of Qui-Gon. Perhaps, he theorized, that the disturbance could have originated from the Emperor's activities in the sith temple beneath the Imperial Palace, but it was a far fetched guess. Then Dooku spoke of him and the prophecy, which Vader cast beside as soothsaying and nothing more. He could use Dooku as an ally: the Count was a capable fighter and talented force user, his power enhanced by his tremendous knowledge and experience. Vader was sure that with some convincing and eloquence, the old man should see things his way. And if he could turn Dooku to his side, he would be a valuable asset in the future.

“Very well.” Vader composed his mind and suppressed his anger, choosing the diplomatic approach instead of a destructive one: “I will speak to the emperor then.” A brilliant idea suddenly sprung into his mind, and he decided to give the scheme a try: “And where are you lodging right now?”

“The Imperial Palace.” Dooku squinted his eyes slightly at the question, his mind attempting to decipher its deeper meaning, Vader noticed and added:

“You happen to be in my proximity then. I have decided to invite you to my fortress as a guest for some future occasion, what says you, Count?”

“Fine, I will consider it.” Dooku replied, “If the emperor would not demand me to be elsewhere.”

“I was expecting a ‘thank you’. You should be honored, Dooku” Vader retorted in displeasure: “It is a distinguished privilege to be in my fortress. It is harder to gain entry here than it is at the Imperial Palace, I believe.”

“I will consider myself honored, then, Lord Vader. We will speak later.” Dooku said with a barely perceptible smile and ended the transmission.

 

***Darth Vader’s Fortress***

 

Padmé was quite lost. After leaving the chamber she arrived in originally, the path was relatively easy to follow. It was not until she arrived at the grand hall of the palace did she become terribly disorientated in the labyrinthian structure. Every room looked the same to her, all dark and barren chambers carved in black granite, and she found herself wandering aimlessly in a circle. She was growing more and more afraid by the moment: she would dread if she entered a forbidden or restricted area by accident, and she felt as though there were corpses or torture devices hanging around every corner she turned. But so far, she has only seen one empty hallway after another. If she were an unwitting visitor and walked in by chance, she would have thought that this place has been deserted for a long time. When she walked into another empty room, she thought that she must have hallucinated as something bright yellow flashed in her peripheral vision. She stopped and looked around, and she was shocked that her eyes did not deceive her: an old turbo engine painted in vibrant colors, now somewhat faded, was sitting in the room across the hallway.

She felt her curiosity get the better of her as she walked rapidly to investigate. For a second, She didn't feel like she was in Darth Vader’s lair, but she felt like she was in a museum in Theed. And after hours of boring exhibits, she was finally able to find a piece of art that captivated her. As Padmé approached the old engine, she realized that it wasn’t a single engine, there were two of them attached to a small racing pod in the back by steel cables. She was instantly able to recognize what it was: it was a pod racer! She looked around the room and realized that this one was very different from the others. It had bright spotlights in every corner and a far lower ceiling. It actually looked like an exhibit.

“What?” She muttered to herself, inspecting the pod racer closer, her hand grazing over its surface. The metal panels on the engine felt sleek and smooth, and it seemed like they were polished very recently. It felt so out of place with the surroundings, but the bright colors were a welcoming change to her weary eyes. “Why would Darth Vader have a pod racer in his castle?”

But before she could pursue that thought any further, her heart froze hearing the footsteps reverberating behind her. She knew that she was doomed as she slowly turned around and looked at the approaching shadow. A hooded man with long, dark robes entered the room. Before he said a single word, Padmé bowed her head low and made a curtsey. She tried to keep her shaking voice even and composed as blood rushed in great quantities to her face: “Lord Vader, what an honor…”

“No, no, you are mistaken, my lady.” The man said as he removed his hood. His voice was good-humored and kind, and he looked just like a normal middle-aged man. Padmé recovered from her bow and stood with mouth agape, uncertain what to say. The man continued: “I am Reginald, my lady, I am Lord Vader’s servant.”

“Oh, I see.” Padmé said quickly, her heart still throbbing against her chest and she felt short of breath after the scare, “A pleasure to meet you, Reginald, I am Senator Amidala. My apologies if I’m in the wrong room, I am quite lost. Lord Vader summoned me here for an audience. Where would I find his excellency?”

“He is occupied at the moment, my lady. Please follow me.” Reginald bowed deeply and began walking. Padmé caught one more glimpse of the pod racer and followed the servant closely, afraid of becoming lost again in this awful place. She felt her breathing and heart rate return to normal as the aftermath of the frightening moment subsided, and questions began flooding into her mind. That pod racer felt so jarring in this dark place, its bright colors and airy frame belonged to somewhere filled with sunshine and open fields, not in this harrowing fortress where every wall and tile oppresses and crushes a person’s soul. She remembered the only pod race she watched in her life on Tatooine many years ago, yes, Tatooine! She felt that Tatooine was the perfect place for pod racing, with its open mesas and dunes stretching as far as the eyes can see. Why does a man as morose as Vader possess a pod racer and put it on open display in his residence? Padmé was beyond perplexed, but she reasoned that when people became wealthy or powerful to a point, they begin collecting peculiar objects. It was apparent how many decrepit artifacts the Emperor puts on display if one would visit any drawing room in the Imperial Palace, perhaps Vader was not immune to this addiction either.

“My lady, here is the sitting room.” Reginald made another deep bow and gestured toward the door. Padmé entered through and found the most disagreeable sitting room she has ever seen. She shouldn’t be surprised in Darth Vader’s castle anymore that there was no natural lighting, no windows, no flowing water or aromatic flowers. But for a sitting room, it is outrageous if there wasn’t even a couch! She looked around and tried to identify a possible surface to sit on, but everything was either made of coarse planks of greel wood or the rough, unpolished surface of volcanic basalt. She couldn’t even distinguish which was the armchair, the sofa, or the coffee table. They were all dense blocks arranged as mindlessly as scattered pebbles on the bottom of a pond. She quickly shook off her visible displeasure and responded as a trained politician would, and she knew the formal protocols well enough on occasions like this. Thus suppressing her repulsion, she turned around to Reginald and said in praise: “This reminds me of that beautiful rock garden by the Twi’lek master craftsman I once saw on…”

Reginald was already gone without a trace. Padmé exhaled with some relief and finished her own sentence: “And this is absolutely awful. I hate it.”

A sigh mingled with laughter escaped her mouth as she sat down awkwardly on a hard wooden block, groaning in discomfort. She was thankful that her thick overcoat provided somewhat of a cushion between her rear and the stiff wood because without the buffer, she would begin feeling sore in less than five minutes.

She looked around and scanned the room, and of course, seeing nothing of interest, her thoughts returned to the pod racer that she saw by chance earlier. She recognized it instantly because of the incredible experience she had watching the first and only pod race of her life. It was during the Trade Federation’s invasion of Naboo when her entourage was rescued by two Jedi masters, whose names have already slipped from her mind. She wondered where they were now, after the great purge against the Jedi, and she wished that they were alive and hiding in somewhere remote and outside the Empire’s clutches. Anyhow, her Naboo Royal Skiff slipped through the blockade on their daring escape, but not before taking a shot to its hyperdrive. They made an emergency landing on Tatooine and she accompanied the master Jedi to purchase a new hyperdrive to replace the damaged and leaking one. She remembered vividly the junk shop and its greedy alien owner who refused to accept Republic credits. Stranded and desperate, the master Jedi...Wait! She came to an epiphany as his name returned to her: Qui-Gon Jinn. Master Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan! She smiled remembering the two lightsaber wielding monastic warriors that assisted her, their serene manners, peculiar robes, and their constant talk about “the force”. At first, she thought of it as nonsense, but the older Jedi, Qui-Gon, said that he heeded the advice of the force, and they would escape their predicament by betting on the biggest pod race of the year.

She smiled again at the memory. She remembered how incredulous she was at that statement, and she remembered vividly her anger at Chancellor Valorum for sending these people to help her: the kind that dared to suggest betting the lives of her people and the peril of her planet on a pod race. But what other choices did she have? The bet was on with the junk shop dealer, the prize being the Naboo Skiff if he won, and the hyperdrive if Qui-Gon won.

It was a torrid day (When was it not on Tatooine?) when the race took place, and they were all gathered in the stands. Qui-Gon and the junk shop dealer argued among themselves on who their bets were going to be on. The junk shop dealer insisted that the champion of the previous year would win, and Qui-Gon just listened quietly with his eyes closed as if he was meditating. Then suddenly his eyes snapped open as he searched fervently among the competitors, then he pointed at the one he chose, and he spoke with a certainty that frightened Padmé: “Him, it must be him.”

The junk shop dealer followed his finger and began laughing so hard that he rolled over his back and fell off the seat. Padmé grabbed Qui-Gon’s robe and shook him furiously: he was pointing at a boy who appeared to be no older than ten years old. He had dirty straw-colored hair and a plump, cute little face that stood timidly beside a woman who she presumed to be his mother. “Master Jedi!” She remembered herself saying, “You are out of your mind! We should just back off of this bet and wait for the Republic help to arrive.” But Qui-Gon was determined, and he promised to Padmé that the boy would win because he saw it in the force.

And the boy won. Besides the intensity of the sport and the constant explosions, dismemberments, eviscerations, and becoming target practice for Tusken Raiders, the boy succeeded against all the odds. He navigated the terrain as if he was trained in the art of piloting his whole life, and his ingenuity was astounding. Padmé remembered watching his cable detach, his engine catch on fire, and his competitors ram ruthlessly into his puny craft, but he prevailed nonetheless. It was as if he tamed the sky and wind and walked upon them as their sovereign. He was the first one to finish, and the only one that survived with his ship intact. When he crossed the finish line, Padmé couldn’t even make a sound anymore with her aching throat, spent from all the cheering and screaming. She remembered the triumph upon the boy’s face when he jumped off the pod racer and ran to embrace his mother, burying his face in her raven curls as she sobbed in joy. And she would never forget how Qui-Gon turned around to face the dumbfounded junk shop dealer with the “I told you” look on his face and said, sounding almost sorry as he spoke: “Well, my friend, what a race that was.”

The junk shop dealer said later to Qui-Gon when he was installing the new hyperdrive on the Naboo Skiff, his tone filled with resentment and self-mockery: “You know, I could have got that boy from Gardulla if I won that bet six years ago, eh? But no, the dice landed the other way! What could I say, eh? You lucky bastard, you lucky bastard…”

She thought about that boy often, and it was such a shame that she never got to know his name. She talked to Qui-Gon about him when they returned to Naboo, and she remembered Qui-Gon reflecting pensively about that boy being someone special. She replied “Well, of course, look at the way he won that race!” but Qui-Gon shook his head silently and said:

“No, your majesty, that is not all. Something in the force spoke to me about that boy, and I cannot be sure what it was. When I closed my eyes and waited for a clue about who to bet on before the race, I was expecting something subtle like a breeze to guide my hand, but instead, I heard the voice of a raging hurricane consuming me.” She remembered those poetic words clearly, but she could never fully understand what they meant. Qui-Gon continued: “After this mission is concluded, your majesty, and after Naboo is liberated, I will return to Tatooine, and I will find that boy as the force demanded me to. Only then can I understand the true will of the force. Only then can I unravel my destiny and his.”

Unfortunately, she heard no more of Qui-Gon Jinn nor Obi-wan after the Naboo crisis was over. She remembered vaguely about a scandal and schism within the Jedi order that involved Qui-Gon, who was expelled from the Order for breaking the Jedi code. She tried to learn more of it, but the media coverage on the event was almost nonexistent because of the secrecy of the Jedi order. Now, nothing of the Jedi remained, at least to her knowledge. They were systematically purged at the Empire’s inception when Palpatine “exposed” their plot to overthrow the Republic and democracy. Padmé never for a second believed in that lie, but the general public simply accepted it and forgot it. Now saying the word “Jedi” was a crime punishable by incarceration and harboring a fugitive Jedi was punishable by death.

She sighed in sorrow as she looked up to the darkness surrounding her, feeling small and cold. What happened to Qui-Gon Jinn? What happened to that straw-haired boy? Are they safe? Are they alright? She asked that to the cosmos, and with a glimmer of hope still in her heart, she waited for a response.

“My lady.” Reginald entered the room and announced: “Lord Vader is ready to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people have asked about the back story of this AU. It will all be revealed as the story progresses, but the end of this chapter was a start which I hope you, dear reader, enjoyed. 
> 
> As usual, if you have any questions, please ask. I will reply to every comment dutifully. If you liked it, please support!


	4. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars and any of its characters. (Unless I wake up tomorrow and become George Lucas)
> 
> Their meeting, at long last. Had fun writing this chapter, hope you guys enjoy. School is picking up the pace, but I will write as much as possible in the time I have. I will update every week, I solemnly do swear.

***Darth Vader’s Fortress, Throne Room***

The acute sense of irritation was rising like a tide of bitter bile within him. An irksome feeling alone is hardly bothersome, but if it were to accumulate to an unbearable quantity, it would become overwhelming. It was as if he had his hand tied behind his back while someone tickled his nose with a piece of feather. That was an accurate analogy to how the force was interacting with him right now, prodding and provoking him ceaselessly, pushing him dangerously to the snapping point. Like a brewing tempest gathering over a raging ocean, his ill-feeling began as soon as this Senator arrived in his fortress, and he could sense her presence approach like a flare rapidly ascending in the dark. He deduced that she must be on the turbolift already, and the closer she was, the stronger her disruption manifested in the force. He shifted slightly on his throne, his thoughts turning to the mysterious disturbances he has been feeling in the force in the past few days, climaxing at this very moment. Dooku was correct to the degree that there was manipulation at a cosmic scale because Vader felt the invisible hand of the force tucking at the thin threads of destiny. He could sense that something momentous was about to occur, but he didn’t know what to anticipate. He narrowed his fiery eyes of gold as he peered at the entrance of his throne room, a profuse stream of force power swirling and crackling around him like a whirlpool of ethereal energy as many confused sounds echoed in his mind that refused to be silenced. He heard a small and hurt voice calling out to him, crying and screaming, and his heart clenched in agony as the memory of his mother drifted into his mind, but that voice was different. It had the intensity and desperation of one struggling to hold on to life, unlike her mother’s calm resignation when he found her in the camp of Tusken Raiders. The voice grew louder and louder, and he felt madness beckoning like a tidal wave at the horizon of his mind, its peak crashing down with the force of an avalanche. What was happening? He felt as though he was losing grip on reality when a wretched voice began shouting, its urgency made it rise and stand out above the rest of the clamor:

“Anakin...please! No! No!” The voice, evidently feminine and filled with despair, cried out between sobs in his mind, “I love you!”

“Liar!” Vader shot up from his throne like a bolt of thunder as dark electricity coursed through his veins. His fist, imbued with all his fury, clenched into an iron ball as it collided with the floor. The impact cracked the granite blocks and sent a shockwave so powerful that the heavy double doors on the other side of the hall rattled in its hinges. He sunk onto his knees, clutching his head that was about to split from the pain and the ringing echoes of that shrieking voice: “What sorcery is this? Get out of my head!”

Then as if the world was suddenly muted, everything became silent. He knelt on the floor and breathed heavily, his chest tightening from anger, but also from...fear. He could not be content unless he had absolute dominance over every factor of his life. Every time he was weak and did not maintain control, someone he loved died. The feeling of loss was worse than dying twice over, but now he no longer dreaded it: he was stronger than ever, and he loved nothing but his power, which will surely follow him to the grave. But when his body and mind rebelled against him, he felt lost and confounded, and he despised that feeling when his fate was in uncertain hands. 

Hearing the double doors open, Vader quickly regained his stance and recollected himself to greet his special guest. He observed the shadows moving through the arched doorway, looking past Reginald’s gaunt figure in an oversized robe and focused on the approaching Senator behind him. He couldn’t make out her face very well within the shadows, but a few details were easily discernible. She was a petite woman with a slim waist moving nervously across the floor, her head turning anxiously from one side to the other as she familiarized herself with the room. Vader took two steps back and sat down on his throne, his head tilted to one side in pondering: This senator has more than what meets the eye. She caused a great disturbance in the force, and now the closer she approached, the calmer the force became. It was unnatural for a single person who was force-insensitive to have such a great impact on the force and its movement. Very curious indeed, Vader thought.

He looked up as Reginald approached him, almost tripping over the crevice he just created on the floor. His servant seemed very uncertain about something, and Vader commanded: “You have something to say? Say it, don’t waste my time.”

“My lord.” Reginald conceded but with great reluctance, “I believe it was nothing more than an accident, and she was lost, but…” He swallowed and looked at the senator standing in the shadow, his tone almost sounding regretful: “She...She was accessing a restricted area, my Lord.”

Vader tensed and glanced at his servant, then at the senator standing in the middle of the hall, whose gaze was focused on the floor and her head hanging limply downward. His irritation returned at that unexpected occurrence, and he extended his mind like a tentacle slithering into the senator’s consciousness. Because of his anger and frustration from earlier events, he was slightly reckless with his mind-dissection. He saw the senator visibly flinch at the sensation that she was being trespassed and invaded, and he knew that he had alerted her of his prodding. He retracted his mental probes and turned to his servant again, deciding that he wanted to get the information one way or the other: “And? Where was she?”

“She was in the exhibit room, my Lord.” Reginald replied in a hushed tone, “The one where your racer was on display.”

Vader squinted his eyes and looked back at the senator again, his sour mood somewhat improved. It’s that room. Well, he said to himself, she probably doesn’t even know what a pod racer is. He made a mental note to ask that question later, thinking in the meanwhile that the senator should count herself lucky that she did not wander into some other rooms that held graver secrets; otherwise, he would have broken her neck instantly on the spot without a second thought. He dismissed Reginald, his eyes never once leaving the trembling senator who stood below him. After hearing the double doors close and assured of his privacy, he spoke in a deep, musing tone:

“You seem afraid, senator.”

It took her a few seconds to formulate a response. Something about her voice unsettled Vader. She enunciated everything like the crisp ringing of a silver bell, her speechcraft trained in noble upbringings. Her nervousness made her sound soft and timid, but he could nonetheless feel the defiant fire glaring through her melodious syllables, each word flung at him like a burning bolt from a catapult: “No, my Lord. I am merely humbled by your presence.” 

Vader scoffed and rose from his throne. He began slowly walking toward his guest, reminding himself that he was here for business. But he couldn’t help the urge to torment the hapless woman. After all, the pain and fear of others brought him joy, but there was something more, something about her specifically that provoked him. Perhaps it was her voice or height; perhaps it was how she caused an upheaval in the force so momentous that Vader suffered hallucinations. He continued with his musing voice, now a sinister undertone of cruelty accompanying his every word: “I’m flattered, senator, that you think so highly of me. But not highly enough, apparently, to face me without an inkling of fear. Perhaps you do not know me well enough then.” 

The senator stood there with a degree of composure that surprised Vader, but it also gave him a stronger desire to make her waver and fill her with dread. He reminded himself again that the important business at hand was the contract, and he should not waste his time on an insignificant senator from an insignificant planet that produced all the politicians that got on his nerves. He considered relenting, growing bored at the game. He was going to retake his seat upon his throne until the senator responded:

“Why should I fear you, Lord Vader?” She asked. It was a very pointed question, a direct challenge to his authority in his fortress. Vader stopped in his track and turned around, now determined to punish her for her insolence. 

“You have a stronger will than most, Senator.” It sounded almost as a compliment from the dark lord’s mouth until it twisted into a sadistic smile: “That is why I will enjoy breaking you more than the other slimes I have destroyed.” He approached her rapidly, his fingers at the ready for a force choke that would put the insubordinate senator in her rightful place, and he wanted to see the suffering and fear in her face as he strangles the last breaths out of her. 

And saw her face he did.

For the first time during their meeting, they were close enough for Vader to see her features. He did not have clear anticipation as to what the senator would look like, but he imagined her features to be as nasty and disagreeable as her personality was, jarring like a stubborn thorn that refused to be removed. But this senator’s appearance was anything but disagreeable to the eye. Her visage was elegantly formed and nobly bred, with lifted brows and starry eyes. It was a pallet of impeccable colors so ingeniously arranged that even the most skilled painter of the whole galaxy would not dare to claim his work as its equal. From the moist scarlet of her tender lips to the faint rosy blush of her powdered cheeks, every feature was perfectly balanced upon her porcelain skin serving as the canvas of the masterpiece. She had the wispy air of a fairy nymph, with an exotic charm and silvan beauty meant to enchant rather to entice. 

But as Vader’s eyes traveled down further, the narrative was altered drastically. It was obvious that she had a slender and willowy body judging by her silhouette from afar. But upon further inspection, it was enhanced by the tight bodice and corset that she wore, emphasizing certain areas of interest for prowling eyes. It seemed like her feathery weight did not compromise her womanly curves in any shape or form. Her dress was tailored suggestively to reveal large portions of her skin as pale as alabaster bathed in frigid moonlight, shining in stark contrast to the surrounding thin fabric of a deep, amethyst hue. And if that feature was a lewd suggestion, then the plunging neckline was nothing short of carnal seduction: her perky breasts were half shaded, half shown by the bereft coverings, standing gingerly like two golden pinnacles. Resting just above her collarbones was a golden band holding a large, red jewel more crimson than blood and more fuchsia than sin, and Vader’s finger twitched as he imagined his gloved hand encloses around her white and delicate neck. A strong urge expanded and unfolded internally and he wanted to do nothing more other than decimating her, and in that instant nothing would bring more satisfaction to him than seeing this temptress of a woman suffer. She seemed so frail and flimsy, like some beautiful and bewitching creature of a man’s most pious epiphanies, wildest fantasies, and darkest desires, but in Vader’s eyes, she was wretched and blasphemous like a vile curse. He wanted to twist her, shatter her and savor her pain like how one would slowly pluck petals away from a fallen rose. He wanted to choke her, not telepathically, but with his bare hands so he could feel her flawless skin as he squeezed…

Then as if he was struck in the chest by a sabot shot, Vader recoiled away from the woman so rapidly that she was no less frightened by the sudden motion. He fought desperately to unsee what he just saw, both with his eyes and his mind’s eyes, and he wanted to purge every trace of this woman’s accursed allure from existence. But already, her scent of oriental and fruity orchids haunted him and clung onto his senses like a miasma of decay. The hectic voices sprung into his mind once more as he turned his back on the deplorable creature and sought to separate himself from her before he turned insane. A part of him screamed with the full delusion of mania that he must kill her on the spot mercilessly, for her very presence and the light that she embodied desecrated the shrine of darkness upon which she stood. Another part of him rebuked with cold calculation that she must be kept alive for the contract to proceed, and with steadfast reason, he reminded himself that the Emperor would punish him severely if he failed to restrain his anger and bloodlust. But as he sat down upon his throne, a tiny whisper in a distant voice begun in the back of his mind: She is beautiful, isn’t she?

He wanted to squash that thought like how he would stomp on an insect, but it buzzed around his head like an annoying mosquito: he could hear it, and he could feel its sting, but he can’t do anything about it. He sat upon his seat for a few minutes to regain his countenance, and he glared at the senator like a stone gargoyle, his every thought focused upon her features and demeanor. And that woman, that damned woman, returned his gaze as coolly as if she was looking at nothing more but an inanimate block of stone. He was losing ground to this woman, Vader thought, but at that moment he was too intrigued to be angry. This woman does not fear him, and he could feel the vehemence of her hatred toward him, and he knew that if the contest were between who hated the other person with a greater passion, then he would no doubt emerge the victor. There seemed to be a magnetic link between them, and they were inevitably drawn to each other while repelling each other at once. It was inexplicable: although subsided, Vader still wanted to strangle her and watch her twitch on the floor until she turned into a cold corpse; But at the same time, he wanted this to continue. He wanted to look into her immaculate face and see the hatred she had for him, and he derived a perverted pleasure from being despised by a creature so beautiful and righteous that he felt as though his destiny as a dark lord was being affirmed. (He finally admitted to himself that she did possess great beauty, but that only made him hate her more.) 

Then she began walking toward him, which confirmed his intuition that this woman was truly fearless, and she stopped right before the steps ascending to his towering throne. Then with perfect courtly grace, she made an elegant courtesy and said, her voice masked by the evenness of civil decorum: “I do not believe we have been formally introduced before, your Excellency. I am Padmé Amidala Naberrie of Naboo, Senator of the Chommell Sector, a distinguished member of the loyalist committee, and a good friend to his supreme highness, Emperor Palpatine. I have been eager to meet you, Lord Vader, and I have heard many of your great and heroic deeds. It is an honor to see your greatness in person.”

Vader was silent. Consistent to his hatred of all politicians and their pointless talk, he wanted to interrupt her in her fraudulent monologue, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He sat there and let her finish in civility that surprised even himself, then he replied in a mocking tone, emulating her propriety:

“The honor is all mine, senator.” He replied, deciding that there was their mutual intent on ignoring the incomprehensible embarrassment that happened earlier. Vader shrugged to himself and thought that It was a decent segue to the business talk: “Do you know why you are here, senator?”

“I’m afraid I do not, Lord Vader.”

Vader scrutinized her again, who was standing too close to him for his liking. She wasn’t on the list his master provided him for suspected conspirators of the secret resistance, but he had a feeling that she was somehow implicated. Her fearlessness would lead her to make stupid decisions such as defying authority for the sake of idealism, and Vader, for a second, wanted to probe her mind again for that information. But he decided that it was irrelevant for now. If the emperor had not seen her assisting the rebellion in his force visions, then she probably wasn’t involved, at least yet. He stood up and began descending the steps one by one, the heel of his boots clicking against the hard surface. Senator Amidala shifted to the side and took one step back, bowing her head slightly in feign respect. Seeing that Vader was pacing toward her, she brought her hands before her chest modestly in compliance, but she refused to surrender even an inch of ground. Interesting, Vader thought as he evaluated her, she is not implicated then. She seemed to be as oblivious as a clueless idiot as to why she was summoned here, and her confusion made her bold, so bold that she believed herself to be safe from his wrath.

He paused mere inches before her and towered over her, the utter darkness which he projected eclipsing the feeble light that shone from her mutinous eyes. It was a trick of intimidation that he often employed against weak-willed people, but aside from her bravery, the senator had other defenses: the thick perfume she wore was nauseating, and Vader turned sharply away in repulsion. He kept his distance and paced around the senator ominously like a ravenous beast circling its prey. He probed her mind a few more times, remembering to be far more reserved and subtle, and he found nothing of particular interest. The senator’s mind was as repulsive as her fumes to Vader, and all he extracted from her memory was her embracing an unknown woman dressed in a handmaiden’s garb. The display of affection revolted Vader, and he withdrew from her mind immediately, feeling like he would vomit if he saw anymore. 

Seeing that the senator was as secure but also as useless as an empty safe, Vader continued: “I have a deal for you to consider, senator.”

“A deal as of a business deal?” She looked up curtly and asked, her complexion was a combination of relief and bafflement: “I’m afraid that it is beyond my expertise, my lord: I am a legislator, not a businesswoman.” She said with somewhat of a self-deprecating smile: “I would be an untrustworthy business partner.” 

“Indeed,” Vader waved a gloved finger at her, “So we can agree on something, after all, Senator.” That statement made the senator purse her lips together tighter, not as a sign of displeasure, but it was from her effort to suppress an emerging smile. She brought a lithe hand up to her face and made a wiping motion, tilting her head from the sith lord for a moment, so her face was turned away from his sight. Even a gesture as subtle as that did not escape Vader’s prying eyes, and he fought an unknown urge that he has never experienced before. It was as primeval as time and hunger itself: the urge to encompass her with his darkness, to make this exquisite creature a trophy of his hunt. With great effort he subdued this rousing beast within him and focused back on the topic at hand:

“But I am not looking for a business partner, Senator. You speak for Naboo here on Coruscant, and I have a deal that will benefit Naboo immensely. It would be most unwise of you to neglect this opportunity.” 

“Lord Vader,” She said, speaking with a different tone. It was more direct and expressive, and Vader could deduce that she used that tone and rhetoric often to persuade simple-minded people. “I do not speak for Naboo…”

“My apologies, Senator.” Vader interjected sarcastically, “Then where may I find the person that does?”

“You misunderstand me, my lord.” The senator said, maintaining her diplomatic facade with some difficulty, suppressing her irritation and annoyance from being interrupted and toyed with. Vader felt a rising sense of triumph that he was successful in provoking her, and she was not infallible despite her capability in putting on a calm disguise. Now looking directly into Vader’s eyes, or where Vader’s eyes would be under the shadow of his hood, the senator continued: “I am appointed by the monarch of Naboo, her highness Queen Apailana to represent the people of Naboo in the Imperial Senate, and I am their voice. I speak when they demand me to, but I will not make personal decisions regarding the political and financial issues of my homeworld.” 

“I tire from your political babbling, Senator. If you cannot make this decision and sign this contract, then name the person that can, and get out of my sight.” Vader declared balefully as he loomed over the Senator, “My patience is not limitless, and it would be unwise for you to test it.”

“I will propose whatever your excellency request of me to her highness Queen Apailana, and she has the ultimate power to approve or veto the contract.” The senator replied. 

“There, senator, so you could be concise after all.” Vader jeered with a taunting voice and turned away. He ascended upon the platform where his throne sat, his dark cape fluttering behind him. He sat down and turned on the projections, his somber voice reverberating across the dark hall as he read aloud:

“Five hundred thousand standard industrial containers of refined plasma, delivered in five separate shipments throughout one month. Two million standard industrial containers of unrefined plasma, delivered in one year, the number of shipments is unspecified. The purchase of each unit will not exceed eighty-five percent of the galactic market price, and if negotiated, the sum will be paid in full, in cash.” He concluded, “Understood?”

“Yes...wait, I believe I heard that...correctly?” The senator was about to reply in her usual, confident manner until the numbers began to register in her mind. It was as if a button was pushed and overloaded her internal processor, and she needed a brief reboot. She blinked a few times with her mouth agape, staring sideways down at the floor and nodded to herself, then she turned back toward Vader with a finger raised, but no words came out of her open mouth. She glanced back and forth in sheer confusion, her stunned expression akin to an inattentive pupil suddenly being called upon in class to solve a quantum physics derivation. It took a moment for her to fully absorb the information, and her stuttering answer sounded almost comical to Vader: “Are you...I meant Lord Vader, are you...um, certain, that information is correct?”

“Are you questioning me, senator?”

“No, of course not, I wouldn’t…” She said defensively with her hands raised before her chest. “I...well, actually…” She muttered to herself in a barely audible level, “I am technically questioning you...But!” She said aloud, “My lord, if my memories are correct, two and a half million units of raw and refined plasma would exceed the quantity the whole planet produces for five years, perhaps more…”

“So you cannot supply the quantity I desire.” Vader cut her off with a growl, rising from his throne, “Then you are useless to me, senator.”

“Lord Vader, you misinterpret me again.” The senator sighed and replied, sounding very reluctant to continue. “We have the quantity in storage, and theoretically, we can deliver the quantity that you demand, but we have never signed a contract this size, we have never even signed a contract half as many as this.” She looked up and asked: “May I inquire…”

“No.” Vader declared decisively, not allowing her to finish. Of course, he thought to himself, out of all people, this woman would be the kind that has the nerves to ask such a question. “You may not. Indeed, this is the perfect time to include a reminder, of sorts.” Vader drew closer to the senator until her face was covered by his shadow, and he raised a gloved finger and maintained it so close to the senator that it was almost touching her pointed nose. “If you ever dare to bring up a single word of what transpired in this fortress to anybody, I will personally see to it that you, and whoever else that might have heard this information, die an excruciatingly painful death.”

The senator bowed her head and muttered: “Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Vader shut off the projector and returned his unadulterated attention to her. “The contract will be sent to you with all the enclosing information, and the sovereign of Naboo will make a final decision on this contract before the beginning of fete week. Opportunities like such do not come by easily, Senator. Your cooperation will be the wisest course of action, and perhaps if all goes as planned, you might even receive a reward.”

“I am most grateful, my lord.”

Seeing that the contract has been addressed, and the senator coerced into an uneasy partnership with the dark lord, Vader remembered the information from Reginald earlier regarding the senator exploring parts of the castle that were deemed restricted. More specifically, the exhibit room, which held his personal pod racer that he used to triumph in the Boonta Eve Classic many years ago. He glanced at the senator, and seeing the way she spoke and dressed, knew that she was an elite raised in privilege. The likes of her would condescend upon pod racing as uncivilized and crude, like Tarkin and his obsession with fancy mechanical pool tables. Vader sneered at their pretentiousness, but he was curious whether or not the senator will admit to what she saw. If she would lie, then Vader would have even more leverage on her. Seeing that the important matter has concluded, he wondered out loud to the room:

“So, senator...I heard from my servant that you were lost in the castle and stumbled around clumsily. It seems like you have entered into some rooms that were off-limits to the public. What do you have to say about that?”

She replied quickly: “My apologies if I trespassed, Lord Vader. I did not see any markings or barriers that deterred me from entering a room or hallway, and I was simply trying to find the central turbolift. Please forgive me, my lord, and I guarantee that I will not speak to anyone about what I saw in the castle and about this contract.”

Witty woman, Vader thought to himself. He rarely had any visitors. Thus he never bothered with marking any rooms as “restricted” The rooms that held military secrets or ancient Sith artifacts were concealed behind dozens of layers of walls and blast doors, and only very few individuals know of their locations. A guest like her will not even be able to find the hidden entrances, let alone break in. But for easy access, he designated the display room to be close to the main hallway, and this troublesome senator just happened to walk right in.

He was not satisfied, however. He reasoned that if the senator made nothing of it, she would candidly say that she saw a racer somewhere in the castle. The only time someone refused to say that they saw something would be when they knew that they should not have seen it. Vader pursued: “But I am interested, senator, in what you saw? You are my guest, after all, and I hope my residence has been...adequate.” 

“I find it very lovely indeed, Lord Vader.” The senator looked around with a smile on her face, albeit forced, and gestured at the massive, empty hall, “I especially like the…” She looked around, trying to find something to compliment: “The throne’s design is very unique, Lord Vader. I believe it fits you very well.”

“Answer my question.”

“I did, my lord. You asked whether or not I enjoyed your establishment, and my answer is in the affirmative.” She said without even thinking and maintained her dainty smile, not even a little bit flustered. Losing his patience, Vader stepped closer to her and growled:

“What did you see?” And knowing that she will try to dodge the question, he specified: “In the exhibit room.”

A brief moment of silence fell between the two of them as the senator considered it, her face composed but her eyes drifted away from the Sith Lord, her lips parted just so slightly that an unwitting sigh broke through. Then she pursed her lips together and blinked twice, her eyes once again focused, and she replied steadily: 

“I saw a yellow pod racer.”

Vader raised his brows beneath his hood and inhaled deeply to quell the rising unrest in his chest. His golden eyes gazed at the senator with the intensity of a solar flare, and he was so utterly caught off guard that all the comments and threats he was going to make became invalidated instantly. It was a stunning victory on the senator’s part, which she didn’t even realize, as no one can catch Vader off guard during a conversation or a duel, but she did. If she could see his expression under his hood, it would match very well with her face when Vader told her that he wanted two and a half million containers of plasma out of nowhere.

“You know what a pod racer is.” Vader finally said, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement. He supposed it was both: he heard the senator say “pod racer”, correctly identifying the craft, which meant that she knows the sport. But he still couldn’t accept the contradiction: pod racing is only popular on backwater outer-rim worlds, which meant that people on pastoral planets like Naboo and Ecumenopolis worlds like Coruscant would have no exposure to it at all. Thus, how could she know? Why would she know? Vader was growing more and more fascinated with this senator, and in his captivation, his usually severe and menacing manner softened ever so slightly. His words no longer carried a hidden edge to wound, and his tone changed from that of a sardonic tormentor to a somber man. He repeated, this time accepting the reality of her knowledge, and all the more intrigued by it: “You know what a pod racer is.”

“I do.” The senator smiled innocently, and her answer was just as fluid as how one’s response would be if they were asked about the weather. “I have seen a full pod race before.”

Another surprise. Vader made no response but a brief “huh”, and he drew away both from the senator’s strong perfume and his ruffled mind. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to the throne, he stopped and considered the possibility that she saw it while going through broadcasting channels on the holo-tv, and perhaps it wasn’t as abnormal as he thought it was. Surely, Vader thought, she did not fly all the way to Tatooine or Malastare just for a pod race, and she probably saw it in a salon. No, he corrected himself, salons don’t show pod races, only bars filled with outlanders do, but she doesn’t seem like the kind to enjoy such places. He continued in his inquiry: “When?”

“A long time ago, my Lord. More than ten years ago. I saw it…”

“Wait.” Vader interrupted her, “More than ten years ago? Then you did not see it on a holo-net broadcast…”

“No,” The senator finished his thought, “I saw it on Tatooine.”

\---

This meeting has taken on a surprising direction, Padmé reflected, a surprise, but a welcome one for sure. She was still recovering from the aftershock of being offered a contract with a profit margin in the hundreds of billions credit range, and she still felt slightly dazed from the mind probing Vader conducted. It was a thousand times worse than what she imagined it would be. She felt his cold and slimy presence slip into her, like a sea slug crawling up her ear or a squirming worm slithering down her throat, and she simply felt violated. If there was ever a thing called “mind rape”, then Vader had done exactly that to her. She only prayed that he saw nothing of importance, which she did not think he did for he never mentioned the resistance once. Their meeting had veered so far from her anticipations that she ceased her efforts all together in predicting what Vader will do next because he has done everything but act like an approachable and rational human being. And now they are talking about pod racing, Padmé face palmed internally, and she didn’t know if she wanted to smile or scream. She was quite certain that she will not be tortured or murdered, at least not tonight, and that gave her great relief. She didn’t know what time it was, but it was certainly getting very late. She can excuse herself soon. Thus all she had to do was keep chatting about pod races, and she might be able to escape this dreadful fortress alive and unscathed...physically at least. Psychologically, she was expecting a full mental breakdown once she steps into her shuttle, but that will be for later.

She quickly returned her attention to Vader, who has stood inert and silent for almost a minute now after she said that she saw the pod race on Tatooine. Perhaps, Padmé thought, perhaps Vader did not know where Tatooine is, and he was trying not to embarrass himself and think of a clever response. He was clever, Padmé had to admit, but clever in the most twisted, cruel, and fiendish way, and she would expect him to brood all day about new methods of torturing people, and she was glad it was a pod racer she ran into, not a rack or electric chair of some sort.

“You have seen a pod race on Tatooine.” Vader’s words pulled her away from her thoughts, and she quickly replied:

“Yes, your Excellency. And I ought to say that I have never seen anything more thrilling than podracing in my whole life.”

“That’s the second thing we can agree on, senator,” Vader replied, and Padmé realized that he almost sounded genuine when he said that. It was subtle, but she noticed his voice change from time to time. He normally spoke as though he was addressing the thin air before him, speaking with a detached and sour mood that revealed the darkness of his soul. When he chose to address someone, it was mocking and domineering when the topic suited his liking, and when it didn’t, he did not shy away from threats of death and mutilation. But when the conversation about pod racing began, he spoke with a tinge of interest that was very uncharacteristic of him. It gave Padmé a glimmer of hope that perhaps she can carry on a casual conversation with the dark lord, and that would hopefully pacify him to the degree that he becomes harmless to her. Concurring with that thought, Padmé asked:

“Do you watch pod racing, Lord Vader?”

“How else would I know of it?”

“And you must enjoy it, Lord Vader, for you have a pod racer here as a decoration.” Padmé followed up. She wanted to extract as much information from the dark lord as she could without endangering herself. Although it might seem trivial, knowing oneself and knowing one’s enemies is the path to victory. Every bit of information could be used to bolster the fight for freedom, she reasoned, and who better to extract it from than the resistance’s greatest nemesis? 

“I do enjoy it, senator.” Vader replied musingly, and Padmé was about to agree on how wonderful of an experience it was, but Vader said: “I especially delight in the explosions and death, that is the most enjoyable part for me.”

“Oh…” She felt like she choked on her words, and she quickly swallowed and reorganized herself. Remember, Padmé thought, this is Darth Vader. Darth Vader likes nothing more than killing people himself and watching others being killed, and to him, the more brutal, the better. She knew as clear as day that she shouldn’t even try to believe that there is a grain of compassion and humanity left in him, for even her idealism could only go so far. Some people have fallen so far down the abyss of evil that no redeeming light can ever pierce the gloom and shrouds them, and if she would try to reach out a helping hand, it would only result in her being dragged down with them. She replied nonetheless, trying her hardest to ignore what he just said: “What I enjoyed the most about the race on Tatooine was the speed and the sound of the engines roaring as they passed the stands. There is nothing else, really, in the world that could compare.”

“About that race on Tatooine. Tell me, senator, when did you see it?”

“I cannot recall the exact year, Lord Vader, but I believe I was fourteen then, which would make it...” Padmé did some mental arithmetics and replied: “It would be thirteen years ago. I still remember it well, however, and it would be a pleasure to witness another one of such events.”

“Thirteen years ago…” Vader murmured to himself pensively. For the duration of the meeting, he was predatory and passive-aggressive to a fault, and he did not seem to have the concept of personal space, which he delighted in invading. But now, Padmé observed, he was standing a fair distance away indifferently, almost passively, and despite being mere inches away from her many times in the past hour, either to unsettle or intimidate, he seemed to have lost interest in her altogether, too engrossed in his thoughts about pod racing. Suddenly he snapped his head toward her and asked: “Which one did you see?”

“Which one?” Padmé was caught off guard for a split second because she didn’t realize there was more than one event: “Uh, the...the…” She searched her memory for the name, but she found herself at a loss although it was at the tip of her tongue: “The...the Classic!” She exclaimed and winced, embarrassed by how loud she was, “It was the Classic, Lord Vader, it was a huge competition…” She stopped suddenly, realizing that it was probably a horrible description, but Vader’s response astounded her:

“Yeah, the Boonta Eve Classic.” He said without even thinking, “The annual competition held just outside of Mos Eisley.”

“You know it?” Padmé refused to believe that those words indeed came out of Darth Vader’s mouth if he has a mouth at all under that hood. “Have you seen it?”

“No.” Vader denied forcefully as if Padmé leveled an insane accusation against him, and his tone took an unexpectedly dark turn. Padmé shrunk from the tenebrosity of his voice and the volatility of his tone, uncertain how she had offended him. Vader slowly approached her, each of his careful and measured steps clicked against the granite floor as the hollow sound reverberated through the throne room with a dour echo. “You should keep your inquiries to yourself, senator. This is my fortress, and you are standing before my throne. I am the one asking questions here, not you.” He paused and turned to her. Although she could not see past the black hole in place of his features, she could feel his fiery gaze burn into every inch of her skin as that gloomy mask turned to face her: “Tell me, senator, for I am indeed intrigued. What did you see during that race that left such a deep impression on you that you are able to identify a pod racer a dozen years later?”

She balked at the very specific question and contemplated whether or not she should recount the experience to Vader. A part of her feared that he would use the information against her, but how? A pod race thirteen years ago was surely not a sensitive topic. She did caution herself that she could not mention the two Jedi masters that accompanied her or the mission that she undertook during the Naboo blockade. Thus she organized the pieces of her memories and began narrating:

“Of course, Lord Vader, I would be most glad to recount it to you. I was not in Tatooine for leisure, nor is it the best destination for travel. Nonetheless, I was on a mission of a confidential nature that I may not disclose.” She hastily added before he had a chance to ask, “There is a gag order on me from the Imperial Supreme Court, and I am afraid that I am not allowed to speak of why I was on Tatooine. But I was there, and I heard that there was this big race occurring, and I decided to spectate it as I had nothing else to do...”  

“I am not interested in the circumstances. I want to know about the race. Who won?”

“Who won?” The question once again staggered Padmé. She wasn’t sure why the dark lord and the emperor’s right-hand man would be so interested in such an obscure and backwater entertainment. The straw-haired boy appeared again in her mind, but she could not remember his name for the life of her. She heard it once when the commentator pronounced him the champion, and it was surely a unique and fitting name. Unfortunately, it has long slipped her memory. But no matter, she thought, even if she knew the boy’s name, Vader would not know who that boy was, nor would he care. Thus she gave him the best description her memory could provide:

“I know you would not believe me when I say this, and most people wouldn’t believe it even when they saw it with their own eyes during the race. Among the dozens of competitors, a young boy who looked no more than ten years old won. He had a full head of fluffy and dirty blond hair, and his cheeks were slightly freckled. He had a round and adorable little face, and he was quite cute.”

“Cute…” Vader repeated that word with a tone of resentment, “I despise that word.”

“My apologies, my lord. I will skip on the subjective descriptions then.”

Vader waved his hand and signaled for her to continue.

“He had the smallest pod racer of them all, and…” Something suddenly jumped into her mind: the pod racer the boy drove was also painted bright yellow, and she realized that it bore an uncanny resemblance to the one she just saw in the exhibit room downstairs. A coincidence, she justified it to herself, it was probably just a popular model. She knew that it would be most unwise to probe at Vader with more questions about his personal life and interior decor choices, and she continued, ignoring her previous thoughts: “He looked so tiny among all the other competitors. But once the race started, he blew everyone away. The speed he possessed, the agility and intuition he had was inhuman. His cable detached during the middle of the race, and it looked as though the repulsor craft was about to fragment into pieces in mid-air while going five hundred miles an hour, but he carried himself through everything with such composure and maturity that even the expertise of the finest pilots of the galaxy could not compare to how well the boy performed in that race.”

“Of course,” Vader said with a tinge of smugness, reminding Padmé of the people at the race who betted on the boy and won a fortune from it, “It is unwise to underestimate the potential of people.” He dwelled on that for some time, then he suddenly turned as if he remembered something important: “What is this boy’s name?”

“I am afraid I cannot recall, it was a long time ago.”

“Ah…” Vader exhaled, sounding almost disappointed, “I was hoping that you would know.”

“I only wish that I could remember what it was, Lord Vader.” For the first time in the meeting, Padmé was truly genuine with her emotions, and she spoke without the courtly facade that she always wore. Something inside her wanted to emerge and break through her cocoon of disguise, and she continued despite her uncertainty regarding the wisdom about revealing too much to Vader: “I wished that I had a chance to know who that boy was. I wish I could have spoken to him and sat down with him, and…” She tried to think of a pleasant activity, which she settled on: “And I wish that I could have sat down on the meadows of Naboo and enjoy a nice picnic with him.” She didn’t even know why she said that, but something convinced her that it was the right thing to say: “I hope that boy is doing well today, and I hope that he is happy and alright. I saw how jubilant he was when he hugged his mother…”

She suddenly felt like she was stripped naked and cast into a bucket of icy water, and an unexplained flow of coldness washed over her and sent shivers down her spine. She paused and shuddered, looking around, trying to identify this unexplained phenomenon. Hearing her stop, Vader inquired: “What made you stop, Senator?”

“I...I don’t know.” Padmé hesitated, uncertain whether the sensation was her hallucination or reality, “I beg your pardon, my Lord.”

“Continue. You wished that you knew this boy, and you wanted to picnic with him. You certainly are full of surprises, Senator. I would not have guessed that this boy, whose name you do not even remember, meant so much to you. ” 

“There is just something about him…” Padmé tried to deflect the biting question from Vader, and her confusion was not assisting her in the task. She wondered why she had a certain affinity for that child, nor could she make sense of why Vader had such an interest in the pod race she watched on Tatooine thirteen years ago. “I do not know why, Lord Vader, but I thought of that boy frequently, especially in the years after the race. I haven’t thought of him in a long time until I saw the pod racer earlier tonight. I do not know who he was, and I do not believe that I ever will. But I saw the light shining in his eyes when he crossed the finish line, and I hope that light will never be extinguished. I have always wondered to myself about where he is now. I hope he left the scorching and dusty hell of a place Tatooine is and settled somewhere more lush and pleasant. Maybe he became a pilot or a professional racer; maybe he became a mechanic or engineer. I just hope that he is safe, and happy, and…”

“That boy is dead.” 

Something struck Padmé like an iron gauntlet in her guts, and she was suddenly paralyzed by the apprehension of what that horrifying statement was trying to imply. She was fearful of even looking at Vader, and her utter disgust of him boiled in her heart. She clenched her hands together before her abdomen and stopped them from trembling, both from anger and fear. With great effort, she untied her brows and kept her expression apathetic. What did he mean? What was he saying? She pushed down the desire to scream and asked shakily: “Do you know that boy, Lord Vader?”

“No!” Vader snapped at her like a provoked dog and pounced at her, halting mere inches before the terrified senator, “That boy means nothing to me! I do not know who that boy is, I do not care for who he might be, or what he has become, or whether he is happy, or alive, I cannot care less!” He continued in his sudden outburst, unable to restrain his fury. His face, or where his face would be under the hood, was so close to Padmé that she saw two glowing golden orbs, like the ethereal eyes of a specter, glowing behind the shadow that concealed the rest of his visage. He turned and paced away from her, his tone now returned to the usual cold detachment: “A boy who has the audacity to compete in a pod race before the age of ten, and who continues to pursue that passion, would die very quickly. The fatality rate of pod races, senator, is very high. You surely know that from observation, do you not?”

“But he flies very well, Lord Vader. He is a prodigy of piloting, and I am sure he is still alive.” 

“You are entitled to your opinions, senator. I am entitled to mine.”

She grew very defensive at the statement, and she suddenly felt argumentative. She wanted to debate Vader and his shameless slanders on that unknown boy on Tatooine whom Qui-Gon betted on, and who indirectly saved her planet and her people. As dangerous and idiotic as defying the dark lord sounds, she felt that it was the right thing to do for her admiration of the boy. Who is Darth Vader to say such horrible things about a child that he doesn’t even know? She spurted out before she could even restrain herself: “But you said it yourself that you do not know this boy, Lord Vader. If you were there at the race yourself, you would be very impressed at how well he flew. I do not doubt that this boy is living a fine life, and perhaps he enjoys an occasional ride on a pod racer when he desires to catch the breeze.”

“You do amaze me, senator, with your naivety.” Vader remarked, sounding almost humored, “So optimistic, but I am afraid your faith is unfounded. You will never find this boy of yours, for he is long gone in the past, like all things of memories that become meaningless with time.” Vader stood with his hands behind his back and looked up at the massive insignia of the Empire hanging above his throne, speaking aloud to himself more than to her: “All that is relevant is the present, and the feelings of the present, everything else is a mere mirage. Even you…” He turned and pointed a finger at Padmé, “I can sense your uncertainty and fear for this boy of yours, and your feelings betray you, Senator.” Vader squeezed his gloved hand into a fist as he brought it closer, making a motion of invocation as if he was conjuring some sorcery from the ground, his formless face focused on Padmé with such vehemence that it made the fine hair rise on her nape. “For you can try, in your unbridled idealism, to believe that the universe we inhabit is a place where happiness and joy drive the grand machinery of existence. Pathetic! That is what you see standing upon a lofty balcony in the Palace of Theed or in your senatorial pod in the Grand Convention Chamber, but I am sure the rest of the galaxy would disagree. While you and your peers are mired by inefficiency and corruption, those who suffered at the hands of slavers, pirates, and traffickers shout out in despair, but you and your fellow politicians have never heard their cries…”

“I beg to differ…”

“How dare you interrupt me!” Vader exploded in anger. Padmé unwittingly recoiled as his fit of rage seemed to have sent a current through the air itself, but she felt her emotions surge as well. How dare this oppressor and slaver of trillions claim the mantle of a liberator while accusing her of being the cause of other’s suffering? Instead of retreating and submitting to his authority and eldritch powers like a normal person would, Padmé resolutely took a step forward into the seething maelstrom of his fury. Vader, however, was too immersed in his tirade even to pay attention to her defiant act. He continued, and in Padmé’s mind, he was slipping further and further into lunacy as he proclaimed: “How dare you question me? What do you know of suffering and death? I have suffered and lost more than a normal person would in ten lifetimes, and now I have secured the galaxy an age of peace and prosperity, while you politicians have done nothing but bicker over inconsequential nuance while the universe crumbled around you.” He was gesticulating wildly and pacing around until he composed himself and became very stern: “Questioning the progress that the Empire has brought to the galaxy on the grounds of idealism and utopian nonsense is common rhetoric for those rebel scum. I hope, senator, for I have heard many praises regarding you from Emperor Palpatine, that you are not in league with those treasonous mutineers. ”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Vader.” Padmé was incensed so beyond herself that she shrugged off the apparent threat and continued, “But I respectfully disagree. I am loyal to the Empire and Emperor Palpatine, and I understand that for the security of the people, we must give our freedom to those worthy of guarding it…” For the sake of survival, she forced the words out of her unwilling mouth: “To people like you, Lord Vader.” She resented herself for even uttering those words, but sometimes she had to do what she must. She then changed the topic, avoiding anything politically charged and instead engaged upon an earlier topic: “But I still firmly believe that compassion is a force to be reckoned with. Star Destroyers can convince people to behave and deter crime, but it is only useful when it is there. There is a force greater than the compelling force of arms that could hold its influence over others without its concrete presence, and that force is…”

Before she could enunciate the word “love”, a glowing shade of crimson suddenly filled every corner of the umbrous hall, and a figure of jet black and blood red flashed across the floor with such audacious speed that it all appeared like a blur in Padmé’s eyes. Before she could even mutter a word or lift a finger, Darth Vader had dashed across the floor and closed the thirty feet between them with his felon might within the time an eye would blink, and Padmé found her vulnerable neck half an inch away from the glowing blaze of an ignited lightsaber. She tried to scream and flee, but her body was locked in place as if she was petrified by a gorgon. Darth Vader was right before her, and for the first time in her life, she felt genuinely afraid for her survival. She could feel his cold breath sting on her skin, and how unpleasant the rough leather tunic he wore sunk into her flimsy dress and tender flesh. His churlish weight was pressed against her torso, her soft hands compressed between the flinty metal chest plate beneath his robes and her breasts, pain shooting up from every nerve in both of her arms as she felt them go numb from the pressure. She tried to close her eyes or move her arms, but she has lost all control over her bodily functions, and she was as autonomous as a puppet, left to the mercy of the dark lord. 

Then he raised a powerful hand to grip her chin and brought her eyes up to meet his. She wanted to writhe and grimace at the pain, feeling as though her jawbones were being crushed and fractured as he clutched her face with the strength of an iron pincer and forced her head up, so she looked directly into the darkness beneath his hood. And there she saw, gleaming through the shadow, two fiery golden eyes that gazed at her with sinister intents. The heat from the lightsaber was so intense that she felt like her skin was melting away like wax, and from its glow, she could finally crudely perceive the face belonging to Darth Vader. She caught a clear glimpse of that pair of demonic eyes, sunken and bloodshot with golden irises, and their orbit glowed in a sickly red as if it was afflicted by rashes. She saw a nasty scar begin upon his forehead, stretch across the corner of his right eye until it ended upon his cheek. She could see his lips twist into a vicious smile, and that was as much as she could take in before he loosened his grip. She collapsed bonelessly onto the floor, her every strained muscle responded by reminding her brain at once of the excruciating pain Darth Vader subjected them to, and she felt as though she would perish at that moment from the agony that wrecked through her fragile body. The floor felt like a mattress of needles poking into her flesh, and every microscopic flow in the air was a shower of sprinkled salt upon her wounds. She felt like her eyes would pop out of their sockets at any moment, and her brain throbbed against her skull as if it was trying to break free. She could not even scream. All she could do was make barely audible groans as she tried to stay still and stop her limbs from convulsing uncontrollably. Just as her consciousness was about to slip into oblivion and expire, all the pain stopped as abruptly as they began, and she was left on the floor panting and perspiring as tears flowed down from her pale cheeks. 

“I beg your pardon, senator…” Vader’s voice rang from somewhere beside her, but her strength was so utterly depleted that she couldn’t even turn her head and look. He spoke with a cold mockery of her statement, twisting her words for his dark pleasures: “But I respectfully disagree...I would say that star destroyers are not necessary to keep the scoundrels in line, but may I suggest a different solution...a better solution, even.” He said it syllable by syllable, savoring his barbaric victory: “There is a force greater than the compelling force of arms that could hold its influence over others without its concrete presence, and that force, senator, is fear. Fear of pain, fear of suffering, fear of loss, fear of death. You will learn that in time, and you will begin by learning to fear me and my power.”

Something grabbed onto her gown and yanked her up as if she was attached to a hook, and she was rudely tossed like a marionette across the center of the hall. She saw the rectangular columns zoom pass her, and she heard the heavy doors jolt open, and before she knew it, Vader had flung her out of the room effortlessly. She made as smooth of a landing as possible in that perilous situation, the thick overcoat absorbing the bulk of the friction as she glided to a graceless halt on the granite floor, stunned but relatively unharmed. She still felt sore from being stupified by the dark lord’s telekinetic powers and some of her joints might be bruised from the impact, but overall she knew that she was intact and survived the worst of Vader’s wrath. As she laid there, her mind chaotic from the quick turn of events, Vader’s voice boomed from within the throne room followed by many eerie echoes:

“Deliver the contract to your queen. Speak one word of anything that happened in this fortress, then I will see to your slow and painful demise personally. Good night, senator.”

And on that note, the double doors slammed shut before her face, and Padmé was left broken and confused on the cold, hard floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I will try something the next chapter where I switch up the POV characters. So instead of just Vader and Padmé, I might include Tarkin, Dooku, Sidious, maybe even Obi-Wan and develop their stories, backgrounds in the AU, and their motivations concurrently with the main plot being Anakin's redemption. If you have any thoughts about that idea, comment and let me know.
> 
> As usual, please support the work if you enjoyed, comment if you have any questions or suggestions. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> All suggestions, criticism, and comments are appreciated. I have a rough plot already, but if you, dear reader, would like to see certain things happen or if you wish certain characters should be added (or killed), I will consider it. 
> 
> I will try to update once a week (roughly), and I believe in both quality and quantity. Once again, thanks for reading!
> 
> Edit: Moved rating down to M. Will be bumped up later when the smut hits.


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